The Borrowed Bride

by Susan Wiggs

  “He’s a good kid. Wasn’t always, but he is now.”

  “He told me you hope to get the Seahawks up here. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He drove to the front of the lodge and parked. “Because now it might not happen.”

  “Why not?”

  Dan killed the engine and draped his forearms over the steering wheel, turning his head to look at her. The rain had ruined her fancy hairstyle and made it glossy and straight. He liked it better that way.

  “’Cause I stole their promoter’s girlfriend,” he said.

  “Oh, please.” She jerked the door open and jumped out, climbing the porch steps to the front door.

  “Go on in,” Dan said. “It’s not locked.”

  She hurried in. He’d built a fire in the hearth of the main lounge, and the leaping flames seemed to draw her. He stood behind her, watching her tense movements and feeling such a surge of tenderness and passion that his chest hurt.

  “Look,” she said, staring as if mesmerized by the fire. “Number one, I wish you’d been straight with me and told me about your business with Anthony. And second, you didn’t ‘steal’ his girlfriend.”

  “Borrowed, then?” Dan suggested.

  “I don’t belong to either of you. He was amazingly understanding when I called him today.”

  “Then he’s a fool.” Dan took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “Like I was a long time ago. I never should have let you go, Isabel.”

  Just for a moment, she swayed toward him.

  An unbearable tension seized him; he wanted to cover her mouth with his, to taste her and plunge his hands into her hair.

  Then she seemed to catch herself and pulled back. “There was never a question of you ‘letting’ me go. I left. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Then why are you crying, Isabel?” he whispered.

  She lifted her hand to her cheek and seemed surprised to feel tears. “It’s been a long day,” she said in an unsteady voice.

  He took her hand, the one that was wet with her tears. “Come on. Your room’s ready.”

  She seemed a little dazed as she followed him upstairs. He gave her his favorite room, the one Juanita had done in timber green, with a wall hanging depicting a dogwood blossom.

  A man’s flannel pajama top lay folded on the bed. Isabel looked at him questioningly.

  He grinned. “It’s one of mine.”

  “But you never—” Her face flushed as she broke off.

  “Nope, not when I lived in the city. It gets cold up here. I didn’t get the heaters up and running until a few months ago.” He handed her the nightshirt and pointed her toward the massive bath and dressing room done in gleaming green tile and chrome-and-glass brick. “I’ll go make you a pot of tea. Okay?”

  Her brief smile was weary and resigned. She disappeared into the bathroom, and he went to make the tea.

  When he returned with a tray a short time later, he stopped in the doorway, propped his shoulder on the doorjamb and grinned. She was already in bed, fast asleep.

  Isabel awoke amid snowdrifts of eiderdown comforters. This was, she decided with an indulgent stretch, the most decadent bed she had ever slept in. It was also the most restful night she’d had since she could remember.

  Then, peevishly, she figured that walking for miles in the rain was bound to make anyone sleepy.

  She bathed in the sunken oval tub with the massage jets turned on full blast. She left it only when she realized how hungry she was. Wrapping herself in a thick terry-cloth robe that had been draped over a towel warmer, she finger combed her hair and helped herself to a new toothbrush that lay on the counter.

  Then she went in search of her clothes, not relishing the thought of putting on the damp, muddied skirt and top. She was amazed to find the clothes, along with her espadrilles and a cable-knit cardigan sweater, on a luggage bench just inside the door. Everything had been cleaned for her.

  She found Dan in the kitchen, locked in a staredown with a can of biscuits.

  Unable to stifle a laugh, she said, “You just have to press a spoon on the seam, and it’ll pop open.”

  He glanced up and grinned at her. She blinked, and for a moment her legs felt wobbly. Dan had always had a dazzling smile, one that caught at her heart and made her fiercely proud to be the object of it.

  He handed her a spoon and the can of biscuits. “I’ve never been big on breakfast.”

  “I remember.”

  His gigs had kept him out late every night. The next day, he usually staggered down to the espresso stand on the corner for latte and biscotti.

  As she popped open the can, he watched with amazement and asked, “Is that legal?”

  Laughing again, she peeled apart the biscuits and put them on a baking tray. He slid it into the oven and poured them each a mug of coffee. “It’s good to hear you laugh, Isabel.”

  “I slept well last night.”

  “Pretty quiet up here, isn’t it?”

  She added cream and sugar to her coffee. “I can’t believe you washed my clothes.”

  “As survival skills go, laundry isn’t too much of a challenge.”

  “I remember a time when you couldn’t toast bread.”

  “I’ve figured a few things out.” His voice dropped, and his strong brown hand closed over hers. “Isabel.”

  She knew she should take her hand away. She knew she should insist on going back to the city immediately. She knew she should not be feeling this overwhelming attraction to a man who had broken her heart.

  Yet she simply sat there in the bright, sunlit kitchen alcove, sipping coffee and holding hands with Dan Black Horse.

  It was wrong. So why didn’t it feel wrong?

  She felt warm and dreamy and relaxed. She loved the way he looked in the sunlight through the window, his long hair gleaming, his denim shirt parted at the throat to reveal his tanned chest, his dangerous smile and his deep brown-black eyes.

  I’ve missed you.

  She almost said it. Then the oven timer went off, and they jumped simultaneously. Dan retrieved the biscuits and brought them to the table with butter and honey.

  While they ate, he talked. “I always thought I’d have no trouble handling the band’s success,” he said. “But when it started happening for us, it never quite felt right. I guess you could say it messed with my internal chemistry or something.” He ran a hand through his loose hair. “I didn’t fit into my own life anymore. The tours, the schmoozing, the politics, putting up with Jack and Andy and all their problems…” He shook his head. “I kept waiting to feel like myself again. To do something real.”

  A faint smile curved his mouth. “‘The great mother calls home her own.’ That’s how my grandfather explained it. Once I found this place again, there was no way I could ever go back to what I had before.”

  “I read about your departure from the band,” she said. It had been all over the local arts journals.

  He waved his hand. “We hung together for as long as we could. Had a few laughs, made some good money. I pick up the guitar now and then when I’m in the mood. That’s enough for me now.”

  She looked out the window and saw a bird land on a tangled marionberry bush at the edge of the yard. “What time is it? I really need to be getting back.”

  His eyes hardened almost imperceptibly. He had never been big on clocks and schedules. It was one of the things she had found so charming about him at first, so exasperating later.

  He squinted at the clock on the stove. “Looks like around noon.”

  “Noon!” She almost choked on her biscuit as she shot to her feet. “I can’t believe I overslept.”

  “No such thing as oversleeping at this lodge. That’s a house rule.”

  “But—”

  He stood and pressed a finger lightly to her lips. She tried to ignore the frankly sensual feeling that simmered inside her.

  “Listen,” he said, slowly taking his hand away. “I remember what you said about your busy we
ek. But you can’t get any of that done on Sunday. At least take a look around, Isabel. See what I’ve done with the place.”

  She remembered how petty she had felt yesterday for ignoring his accomplishments. After he took her home, she would never see him again. The least she could do was admire what he had built.

  The rain had washed the forest clean. Everything was a rich, glistening green. A light breeze shivered through the trees. Isabel felt a piercing sense of connection with this place, and she understood Dan’s affinity for it.

  They walked along a path to the stables. The long, low building, surrounded by a fenced yard, housed four horses, three of whom put out their heads to see who had come. Isabel patted one hesitantly on the nose.

  “You never did care for horses, did you?” Dan asked.

  “You know why. My father died—killed himself—in the Yakima Suicide Race.” She winced at the memory. She had been ten years old. With a gang of other men from the reservation, he had joined the dangerous cross-country race on horseback, hurtling down almost vertical ravines, leaping streams and fallen trees. Her father had plunged off a ninety-foot cliff to his death.

  The next year, an animal-rights group had outlawed the use of horses in the race, and it was presently run on motorcycles. Of course, that was too late for her father—and also for her mother and Isabel.

  She stared at the big bay horse. “It wasn’t the horse’s fault any more than a car wreck is the car’s fault.”

  “The race is different now,” Dan said.

  “And how would you know?”

  “I know,” he said simply. “The local wineries are really big on sponsoring the race. It’s—” He broke off, as if he thought better of what he was going to say. “Come on.” He took her hand and continued the tour, showing her the best places to fish for salmon and trout, a shed where the white-water kayaks and rafts were stored, an equipment barn crammed with a tractor, an off-road motorcycle, a mower, a snowmobile, cross-country skis, fishing and rain gear.

  She studied him, leaning against the rough-cedar building, surrounded by soaring trees, and she couldn’t suppress a smile.

  “What?” he asked.

  “How does the saying go? ‘The difference between men and boys is the price of their toys.’ You have every toy.”

  He laughed. “No golf clubs yet.”

  “This all must have cost you a fortune.”

  He pushed away from the wall. “Everything I had. People are supposed to want to come here and play.”

  “So you’re counting on getting this contract with the team.”

  “It’d keep me out of debtors’ prison.” He sent her a devilish grin. “Do they still have debtors’ prison?”

  As they started back up toward the lodge, she thought, what an adventure this was. It made her plant nursery on Bainbridge seem dull.

  But safe. Very safe.

  Dan showed Isabel the beginnings of the garden Juanita had started for him. Tiny herb, flower and vegetable seedlings sprang from rows of damp black soil. Isabel surveyed the area, cordoned off from deer and rabbits with electrified wire. Here was something she knew, something quiet and orderly like the life she had made for herself.

  She walked along stepping stones between the rows, enchanted by the old-fashioned homeyness of the garden. The foxglove were the sort raised a century ago, antique strains she rarely saw these days.

  She stooped to pinch off a sprig of fragrant Yakima tea, used for brewing or making potpourri. “This is a little more familiar territory.”

  Dan leaned back against the garden gate. “How did you get into selling plants, anyway?”

  “The temp agency I was working for sent me to Bainbridge to set up work files for a nursery. I ended up staying on, eventually taking over the management of the whole business.”

  He moved toward her, plucking the tender cutting from her fingers and dropping it to the ground. “And you’re happy growing plants, selling them?”

  “Well, of course,” she said. His proximity raised a tingling awareness in her. She stepped back, feeling a little defensive. “I guess it doesn’t compare with grunge-rock tours and wild-man adventures, but it’s perfectly fine and I’m good at it.”

  “And your plans to marry?” A dangerous edge crept into Dan’s voice. “Also perfectly fine?”

  “Yes,” she said too quickly.

  “So you’re not looking for anything better than ‘fine.’”

  Somehow, without her realizing it, Dan had backed her against the garden gate. He was so close that she could see him in sharp detail—the regal sweep of his cheekbones, his coal-black lashes like individual spears around bottomless dark eyes.

  Isabel had always known Dan Black Horse possessed a special magic. The critics and music fans knew it, too; in a matter of a few short months, they had boosted him from obscurity to stardom. And then the rest of the country discovered him—on the covers of trade and fan magazines, on CD and concert posters.

  Even those who had never heard his music were drawn to him. It was that aura he had, a subtle yet wrenching wounded look that made people stare and wonder and ache for him.

  “I can’t do this,” she said in a choked whisper.

  His hands rested easily on the top of the gate on either side of her. He wasn’t touching her, but he was like the electric fence—falsely benign, waiting, ready to administer a hot shock if she dared to touch.

  “Can’t do what?” he asked.

  “This… Be with you, damn it! Be near you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t think straight,” she blurted out. “You’re playing games with me, and it’s not fair.”

  He didn’t move a muscle, but his eyes and mouth hardened almost imperceptibly. “I wish you’d listen to yourself, Isabel. You’re standing there admitting you still have feelings for me.”

  The words hit her like a punch in the stomach. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe, and her eyes watered as a tearing pain swept through her. His image blurred and softened, and she felt as if she were drifting toward him, closer, her hands already anticipating the rough-denim, hard-muscled texture of him.

  But before she could move or speak or make sense of what was happening, Dan shoved back from the gate and stalked away. Stricken, she stared at his long, slim, retreating form. Then she saw that Gary Sohappy was riding into the yard on the horse called Petunia. He and Dan spoke for a moment. Gary held a parcel wrapped in a hooded sweatshirt under his arm. He handed it to Dan and dismounted.

  Isabel left the garden to say hello to Gary and to thank him again for finding her last night. When she reached them, she stopped short and gasped, spying the bundle in Dan’s hands.

  “What happened?”

  “Not sure,” Gary said. “I found her on the way up here.”

  She was a bald eagle. Only her head was visible, sharply defined in line and color. The great hooked beak was vivid yellow, the eyes bright obsidian, the distinctive head sleek and white.

  Gary’s hands were covered in scratches. “She was pretty hard to catch,” he said with a grin.

  Dan held the bird under his arm. “Get inside and wash up, Gary. Use the disinfectant soap. We’ll be in the barn.”

  Isabel picked up the trailing reins of the horse and followed Dan.

  He stared at the bundle. “Ever seen a bald eagle close up before?”

  “No.” She was riveted. The bird was watchful, almost brooding. “I had no idea they were so large. How did Gary know it was a female?”

  The bird pecked at Dan’s arm. He winced. “Her temperament?”

  “Sexist,” Isabel muttered.

  In the barn, she tethered the mare in cross ties and went with Dan into a small tack room. Barrels of feed stood along one wall beneath an array of reins. Dan set the bird carefully in a dry sink. The eagle struggled, fighting the makeshift bandage. There was something heartbreaking about seeing such a majestic creature floundering and helpless in an alien environment.

  But
apparently Dan’s voice worked on the bird, too. “Shh,” he said, and spoke a patois of English and Yakima in a mesmerizing singsong. He used his hands with a light, knowing touch, stroking the smooth feathers and even the sharp beak with one hand, while the other hand unwrapped the bird. She still acted edgy, as if ready to explode into flight at any moment.

  Except that she couldn’t fly, and as soon as Dan set aside the sweatshirt, they saw why. One wing hung limp. Isabel could see a little blood.

  “Must’ve been wounded in the storm,” Dan said. “I don’t think the wing’s broken, so that’s something.” He kept up his singsong patter as he opened a metal wall chest to reveal a selection of horse liniments, containers with handwritten labels, jars with rusting lids, a few giant syringes. Dan selected a plastic bottle of antibiotic powder and dusted the wound with it.

  The bird erupted into a panic. Dan gathered it awkwardly to his chest and held it there, grimacing as a set of talons sank into his forearm.

  Isabel bit her lip. “What can I do?”

  He shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. We should probably immobilize this wing.”

  “Let’s try that.”

  Even with Gary helping them, it took over an hour to bind the wing. The bird had the temper of a pit bull, with razor talons and a can-opener beak to back it up. By the time they had fashioned a bandage of gauze, all three of them bore a few nicks.

  Gary lined a crate with straw and positioned it under a single lightbulb for warmth. He placed the bird inside, and they stood back, watching. The bird still had fire in her eye and a haughty air, and her chest rose and fell rapidly. Gary went to put up the horse.

  “I guess we should feed it something,” Dan said.

  She shuddered. “Don’t eagles eat raw meat?”

  “I think so,” he said.

  “Couldn’t we try a can of tuna fish or something?”

  As they walked up to the house, Dan draped an arm across her shoulders. The movement was so natural and felt so right that before Isabel even thought about it, she leaned her head into his shoulder. His knuckles grazed her cheek, and she shivered.

  “I should get my purse,” she said, wondering why her voice sounded so lifeless and flat. “I guess we’d better get started for Seattle.”