by Renee Roszel
When she looked around for Ransom, she noticed he’d closed the door to the elements and was heading toward his bedroom. Upset, but with no idea what she could do about it, she walked into the living room. Out of the corner of her eye she spied another of her blouses, crumpled heedlessly on the top shelf of an antique oak cabinet. She exhaled dejectedly, wondering how so many clothes had gotten strewn about so wildly.
The cabinet doors were wide open. Deep glass shelves held dusty whatnots and assorted bric-a-brac. When she lifted the blouse away from the shelf, Sara could see that it had been covering the photograph of a woman. Absently she picked up the silver frame and walked with it to the window that faced the open sea.
The woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties, about Sara’s age, but her flipped and feathered hairstyle was out of current fashion. Her hair was dark brown, her eyes blue. Sara thought she was lovely in a full-figured way. She had generous lips and a soft-featured oval face. Though she wasn’t strikingly beautiful, the woman had an interesting face, and Sara knew at once that she was Ransom’s late wife.
Out of character for her, Sara felt a rush of dislike for her and had no idea why. Surely it wasn’t jealousy. Surely it didn’t matter to Sara that this woman had managed to break through the invisible but very real barrier that kept Ransom Shepard from connecting with people—even, it appeared, his own son.
Or perhaps it was the loss of this woman that had done it to him.
“What are you doing?”
Sara was so startled by the harsh male voice behind her she dropped the framed photograph. The glass shattered and, mortified, she sank to the floor to gather up the shards.
“Get away from there,” he ordered, pulling her upright. Annoyance sparked in his gaze. “I’ll do that.”
“I—I’m sorry. I’ll replace the...” Her voice faltered and she blushed.
“Forget it,” he muttered. Tossing the broken pieces on top of the shattered remnants still in the frame, he eyed her for a heartbeat, his glance made enigmatic by the expansive fringe of his lashes. Before she could say anything else, try to make further amends, he pivoted away.
With rigid strides, he disappeared into the hallway, taking the treasured photo of his wife to the safety of his room. Sara gulped spasmodically, ashamed of her fumble-fingeredness. His pain at the loss of his wife was starkly evident in the coarse emotions she’d witnessed on his face.
Dejected, she retrieved the crumpled blouse from the floor where she’d dropped it, deciding the safest course would be to stay out of Ransom Shepard’s way for the next six days—days Sara feared would be the six most difficult of her life.
CHAPTER FOUR
TAG HAD TOLD SARA only that morning that the Pribilof Islands had been dubbed “the birthplace of the winds.” At the moment, fighting the elements in her attempt to walk along the foam-strewn beach, she understood why. And she’d thought Kansas had a corner on wind! Here on St. Catherine Island, the gusts were so strong, nothing taller than stunted shrubs could withstand the gale forces that blustered up to ninety miles an hour across the rolling hills of tundra, mosses and subarctic wildflowers.
As Sara climbed the rocky slope that led to Ransom’s summer home, she pulled her parka closer about her throat. The sky was cloudy, and the air damp with sea spray. Fog had been thick in the morning, but now, at noon, the weather had grown windy and cold—at least to a Kansan.
Ransom wore no more than a cable-knit sweater when he’d gone out to monitor the red-legged kittiwakes that were building nests at one of his plotted sites on the cliffs. As she’d watched him leave, she’d been filled with misgiving, recalling the strain of the past three days. She couldn’t decide what was bothering her. He seemed at ease around the kids, laughing and joking with them. Yet at odd moments, when she happened to catch him unaware, she’d find him staring, features severe and somehow sad, at Tag. That nagged at her. What was wrong between father and son?
But she could do no more than wonder about it, for she was far from being a confidante of Ransom’s. It was painfully obvious he not only didn’t want her as his friend, he disliked her intensely. Whenever she came into the room, he grew watchful and his stance became rigid. She may have chanced on the discovery that he had a problem with his son—one he was hiding—but he made no bones about his dark feelings for her. They were so palpable a chunk of moss would’ve had trouble missing them.
Ransom confused Sara. He seemed completely willing to allow the house to fall to ruin around their heads. She decided he must have been kidding when he’d told her he was trying reverse psychology on the kids. He’d probably said that to keep her off his back. In her own defense, she had. But even though she’d quit quibbling about the carnage in the house, he still acted as though she was causing him all sorts of trouble.
Stuffing her hands into her pockets, she wondered for the thousandth time what she could have done to make him dislike her. She’d promised to replace the glass she’d broken in his wife’s picture, and she’d silently obeyed his crazy don’t-do-anything-for-anybody-else rules. What more did he want? She supposed he simply wanted her and her sister to leave. In the same position, she imagined she’d be every bit as anxious for him to be gone. She sighed despondently. Well, they were in agreement in one area, anyway. Neither of them wanted to spend one more minute with the other than was absolutely necessary.
Movement caught her eye and, stilling, she turned. Over the rise beyond Ransom’s house, a man’s head appeared. A moment later, as more of him became visible, she could tell he was wearing a suit and was plodding into the wind toward the house. His briefcase wagged in the breeze as he tried to catch his blowing tie. She squinted. Something was wrong with this picture. She didn’t think anyone on St. Catherine Island wore a suit and tie.
The man spotted her and altered his course. She hesitated, though she didn’t really believe he was a sex maniac or anything. Deciding to assume he was a normal human being, she waited as he approached.
He was rather nice-looking she thought. Probably about thirty-five. His medium brown curly hair was blown back from his forehead, exposing a receding hairline. His round wire-rimmed glasses gave him a successful Yuppie aura. All in all, he appeared to belong on Madison Avenue or Wall Street, not on a far-flung rustic isle in the Bering Sea.
“Hi, there,” he said, waving. “I’m looking for Ransom Shepard. Are you a neighbor?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m, urn, a... a guest of Ransom’s.”
His eyebrows darted upward, then he grinned rather strangely. It wasn’t a leer, more an expression of pleasure. “Oh? I didn’t realize he had guests.”
She shrugged, not wanting to go into the details. “It was sort of... last minute.”
Releasing his tie and allowing it to flap over his shoulder, he extended a well-manicured hand. “I’m Isaac Dorfman. Ransom’s lawyer.”
“I’m Sara Eller, from Kansas,” she said, slipping her fingers into his. “Ransom’s not here right now. He’s not back from bird-watching and—”
“Darn. My schedule’s pretty tight,” he interjected straightening his glasses as he peered at his gold watch. “Could you point me in the right direct—”
“Dorfman!” came a distant shout. “Nothing I’d rather see more right now than your ugly face.”
Both Sara and Isaac turned to see Ransom strolling toward them in his unhurried, yet commanding way. Sara swallowed nervously when she saw his wide grin. She’d never seen the smile he reserved for true friends, and she was struck again by his masculine appeal.
Isaac thrust out a hand for Ransom to shake. “You know, no matter how many times I see you with those binoculars and that notebook, it’s still hard for me to believe a killer in the boardroom like you counts birds on his vacations. How are Mr. and Mrs. Kittiwake and all the baby Kittiwakes?”
Ransom’s grin slackened. “Population’s down in two plots. Holding steady in the third. Pretty much in line with my figures of five years ago.”
; Isaac sighed. “Maybe you should take up a hobby like counting oil spills. They’re up.”
“You’re a sick man, Dorf. Remind me to fire you later,” Ransom said with grudging humor. “But right now I’m gladder than hell to see you.”
The suited man smiled rather curiously. “I thought you’d bite my head off for bothering you out here, especially on a Saturday.”
Flicking Sara a meaningful glance, he shook his head. “You’re in luck. I need you. You came in the company plane, didn’t you?”
Sara held her breath. A plane? She must have been pretty thick not to have realized it. This lawyer was their ticket home!
Dorfman smirked at his boss. “I thought it best to come by plane. It’s a damp walk.” Holding out his briefcase, he added, “I finally got Wallingford to agree to our terms. But the papers have to be signed and back on his desk by six tonight or the deal falls through.”
“We got the whole thirty million?”
Dorfman laughed. “He cried, wheedled, shouted, but in the end, he agreed.”
Sara was stunned by the amount of money being bantered around. And she was surprised by Ransom’s mild reaction. If she’d just made thirty million dollars, she’d be flat on her face in a dead faint. Ransom’s smile was lukewarm. What did it take to reach this man?
“That’s what I like,” Isaac said, looking closely at his boss. “Howling at the top of your lungs and wild applause. I work my little lawyer’s brain to a nub and all you can do is give me that nice-to-see-you-what-was-your-name-again smile? I mean, it’s thirty million dollars, ol’ buddy!”
“That’s great,” Ransom said absently. “Let’s sign the papers. Then I have a couple of passengers for you to take back to Anchorage.”
Isaac’s expression clouded with confusion. “Passengers?” He shifted the briefcase to under his arm in an attempt to keep it from being buffeted by the wind.
Ransom gestured toward Sara, who hadn’t realized she’d unconsciously begun to back away. “I’ll... I’ll go pack,” she murmured. As an afterthought, she said, “And congratulations on your, er, thirty-million thing.”
Ransom nodded, but his expression gave no hint of satisfaction over his good fortune. When he said nothing, she hastened to leave, adding, “We’ll be ready to go in fifteen minutes.”
Hurrying off, she chanced to hear Isaac say to Ransom, “I couldn’t be lucky enough for one of your departing passengers to be that gorgeous redhead, could I? Nah. I suppose she’s taken.”
By his tone, it was clear that Isaac was asking if she and Ransom had a romantic relationship. The idea was so startling she stumbled, but caught herself with a stiffened arm. Standing, she brushed her hands together to knock the grass and dirt from her palm, hoping the men hadn’t noticed her misstep.
“Are you hurt?” Ransom called.
She cringed. They had. Shifting about, but avoiding Ransom’s gaze, she mumbled, “Yes—I mean no. I’m all right.” Why had Isaac’s question flustered her? Maybe because the thought that a wealthy man like Ransom Shepard would look twice at an uneducated waitress such as herself had never occurred to her. Isaac was probably being funny again. Apparently the two men loved kidding each other.
She’d turned to escape when she heard Isaac exclaim loudly to his boss. “Your what? Mail-order bride?” He sounded incredulous, which caused Sara to bite her lip with apprehension. Ransom was explaining her and her sister’s presence on the island. Humiliation scalding her cheeks, she scurried up onto the porch, wanting to get packed and away from Ransom Shepard and this whole mortifying experience as quickly as possible.
She stopped to grab a muddy pair of Lynn’s shoes that had been abandoned in a corner. While she tried to figure out a way to knock the dirt off of them, she could again hear Ransom and Isaac talking. They were strolling toward the house.
“Just how old is this mail-order bride of yours?” Isaac asked.
“Sixteen. And if you think what I think you’re thinking, you’re fired.”
“My mind’s a blank,” Isaac stated, humor tinging his voice. “So I gather the other passenger is Tag. I presume you and your sixteen-year-old bride want to be alone.”
“You’re very funny, Dorf,” Ransom muttered. “You’ll be the funniest man in the unemployment line.”
Isaac laughed. “Okay. I’ll quit joshing. But you have to admit, for a man who’s gone five years ignoring the fact that there are even women on the planet, it’s got to be a little funny that you suddenly have a sixteen-year-old bride and her—what?—twenty-five-year-old sexy sister living with you. I mean, it would be tasty fodder for the office gossips.”
Sara swallowed and tucked the shoes under one arm. She didn’t care to be trapped on the porch eavesdropping, especially considering Isaac’s flattery. As quietly as she could, she edged toward the door that led into the house.
“None of this will get back to the office gossips,” Ransom decreed from just beyond the porch. “They’re both going home. The sixteen-year-old needs a good spanking, and her sister needs...”
After a long pause, Isaac asked, “What? What does the older sister need, boss?”
Sara turned the knob soundlessly, her escape a breath away. But for some reason she waited. What did Ransom Shepard think she needed? Why did she even care about his opinion?
The silence stretched to the breaking point. Sara wished she could see Ransom’s expression. Was it thoughtful? Was he shrugging indifferently? Was he leering and elbowing his lawyer friend with a lewd wink?
“She needs a ride home,” Ransom said finally, his voice hardly discernable above the moaning of the wind.
“Are you sure that’s what she needs, or is it what you believe you need?” Isaac asked, his voice devoid of humor. “If you want my opinion, I think it’s time you had some softness, some sweetness in your life. I know, I know,” he objected, as though Ransom had tried to interrupt. “You keep insisting you’re too busy, but, boss, no man, not even you, can live by raking in millions alone. You need a woman.”
The scrape of a foot ascending a step made Sara jump. As she slipped inside the house, she heard Ransom growl, “Put a cork in it, Dorf. We have papers to sign.”
Sara barely made it through the living room, vaulting trash as she went, before the men came inside. She halted just inside the hallway to catch her breath and slow her erratic breathing. Then she realized too late, that she would have to cross in front of the doorway to make a clean escape to her bedroom. Mouthing a word she usually saved for when she stubbed her toe, she could do little more than press herself against the wall and hope Ransom and Isaac weren’t aware she was lurking only a few feet away. As she plastered herself there, she heard Isaac exclaim, “What in blazes happened here? Good grief, Rance, this place looks like—”
“Shut up,” Rance barked in a sharp whisper, “or I’ll be forced—”
“I know, you’ll fire me,” Isaac retorted. Sara heard a noise that sounded as though someone stumbled. Isaac yelped and in a strangled voice asked, “What’s this on the couch? Damned livestock? What the hell are farm animals doing in—”
“They’re reindeer, city boy. Hasn’t ten years of living away from New York taught you anything?”
“Reindeer?” Isaac asked. “Oh, ‘course. Everybody needs a couple of reindeer on the sofa. Where do you keep the elephants? I prefer mine on furniture with a southern exposure.”
“Open the blasted briefcase before I cram it into your big mouth,” Ransom muttered. “Tag’s in the kitchen.”
“Doesn’t Tag know you have farm animals in the parlor?”
“They’re still reindeer. And I’m not in the mood for your jokes right now.”
Sara frowned, listening closely. So Isaac wasn’t used to seeing Ransom’s home resemble a city dump. She began to actually believe Ransom was working some crazy sort of psychological scam on the kids. Crazy, unique—but far from successful.
Isaac made a false start, as if he wanted to complain but apparently thought be
tter of it. Sara could picture Ransom scowling the man down, and she felt for the lawyer. She’d been backed into a corner by the intimidating force of Ransom’s scowl more than once.
“What about those contracts?” Ransom asked, his tone rich with unspoken warning.
Sara listened. Hearing papers being shuffled, she dared to peek around the corner. Both men were bent over a briefcase, which balanced precariously on the mess that littered the coffee table. Now was her chance to get to the bedroom. With a deep breath bolstering her courage, she crept by, making a good escape.
Five minutes later, she’d packed one of Lynn’s bags with her own belongings and had started throwing Lynn’s things into the other suitcase her sister had brought. It would have been impossible to fold anything, even if she had time and her fingers were working properly. Lynn’s clothes were too wrinkled and hopelessly jumbled.
Sara was anxious to be away, but there was a tiny part of her that was upset by this abrupt leave-taking. No, she decided, as she stuffed the muddy shoes in with Lynn’s other soiled belongings, it wasn’t so much the sudden departure as the way Ransom had put it. He’d ordered her off the island. It was all too clear how determined he was to be rid of the troublesome Eller sisters.
As she pressed down on the lid of the battered suitcase and struggled to fasten it, she muttered, “This is absolutely fine, Mr. Thirty-million-dollar-deal. I’m tickled pink to be leaving! You needn’t have ordered me to go! I wouldn’t stay here with you if you begged, not if you pleaded, not for the whole thirty million!”
“Did you say something to me, Miss Eller?”
Sara’s head snapped up. Ransom was lounging in the doorway, his expression narrowed and unreadable. “Something about begging and pleading?”