In the freezer she found a package of stewing meat, and that decided her. An hour and a half later, the stew was slowly simmering in the crock pot. She made herself a cheese and tomato sandwich and sat on the balcony to eat it.
The sun warmed the balcony and Laura stripped off her sweatshirt. It was definitely T-shirt weather, too beautiful to be inside. She finished her sandwich and went back in. Once her dishes were washed, she rummaged around the front entrance cupboard, finally pulling out an old fanny pack to carry a plastic bottle full of juice. She added a book of matches that she found in the drawer next to the stove and snapped the pack around her waist. With the bottle bumping against her lower back, she ran down the stairs, walked through the living room and past her father’s study. The sense of his presence was so strong that she had to force herself out the door.
She strolled toward the cliff trail, heading upslope. Cool air bathed her face with moisture and her skin drank it in thirstily. Her hands already looked like snake skin thanks to the dry climate. Then she reached the crest of the hill and forgot all about dry skin. The Yukon River tumbled far below her, roaring its way to Whitehorse.
A trail of sorts led from the top of the cliff to the river, almost a hundred feet down. If she looked carefully, she could see the remains of the dock she and her father had built almost two decades ago. They had kept a dinghy with a small motor. On lazy summer weekends she and Dad used to float downriver almost to the Takhini River, then putter back upstream to a worried Fay, long past supper time. Or sometimes Fay would meet them with the truck at Takhini Landing and they would put the craft on the trailer and drive back.
She eyed the trail dubiously and decided she was no longer a nimble twelve-year-old. It would be too ironic if she escaped Johnny Tucker’s long reach only to kill herself falling down a cliff.
As she stood admiring the view, she suddenly remembered how frightened Fay was of heights. Her mother could never bring herself to come close to the cliff’s edge, let alone climb down the trail to join them in the dinghy. Funny that she should live here all these years, so close to what she feared most.
Laura moved on, dividing her attention between the path and the view. After days of being cooped up in noisy, smelly long-haul rigs, it felt wonderful to breathe fresh air and hear nothing more than the occasional raven squawking or red squirrel chattering at her. Her stride lengthened as she stretched her legs and took deep breaths. In spite of everything, and for the moment, she was happy.
Ten minutes later she spotted another trail branching off the cliff path and hesitated. This trail led to the old cabin. She hadn’t thought of it in years—and hadn’t visited it in at least ten years. For as long as she could remember, the cabin had sat on their land, empty. Her parents didn’t allow her to play there, but she and her friends hadn’t been able to resist the lure of an abandoned cabin.
Feeling a bit like a disobedient teenager, Laura left the cliff path and headed deeper into the forest of pine and poplar. A gust of wind dropped a swirl of yellow poplar leaves onto the path ahead of her.
Moments later she spotted the dilapidated mass. It was even smaller than she remembered. The line of the roof was still intact, and the walls were still straight, but otherwise it was in sad shape. The chinks in the log walls had fallen out and the sod roof had been dead for as long as she could remember, its long grasses and weeds dried to a tangle of stalks that overhung the door and windows. Over the years, wind storms had flung branches at the windows, breaking most of the panes. Fireweed and delphinium grew high against the cabin walls. The cabin sat in a pocket of darkness, as if it swallowed light and breathed out sadness.
With a shake of her head she approached the door, taking care to test each step on the rotting wooden porch. The steps were solid enough but the railing wobbled under her hand.
Why hadn’t her parents kept the cabin up? It had good bones—it would have made a great rental property. Close enough to Whitehorse to drive to work, yet far enough to forget about town every night. Her father, especially, always had an eye for a good investment. But neither he nor Fay had ever wanted to discuss the cabin.
She opened the door, wincing as the rusted hinges protested loudly. Despite the broken windows, the inside of the cabin smelled musty. In a moment her eyes adjusted to the dimness. Disturbed by her footsteps, dust rose through the thin rays of light. A narrow ladder leaned against the loft, where an old mattress waited. Squirrels and other rodents had made a mess of the stuffing.
Smiling, she left the cabin. She and her girlfriends used to pretend it was the cabin of an old miner who never came back because a bear had gotten him, or because he’d been bushwhacked by bad guys, or had tumbled off the cliff and drowned or fallen down a gully and died because no one could hear his screams.
They used to scare each other with the possibility of his return…and the possible state of his return.
As she walked away, a furtive movement caught her eye. She paused, stilled by the sudden recollection that this was bear country. But the eyes that stared back at her from the bushes thirty yards away were sly and knowing. They blinked at her and the fox turned, disappearing into the dappled bushes. Laura caught a glimpse of reddish gold fur before it became just another shadow.
The aroma of simmering stew greeted her when she approached the house. Then she opened the door to the sound of a man singing.
Her heart skipped a beat and she stood in the doorway for a long moment, poised between the need to know and the urge to flee. Had she been discovered? By a singing bad guy?
She stepped into the house, trying to localize the singing. Then she had it—the shower. A man was singing, off key, in her mother’s shower.
What the hell was going on?
Laura stood in the middle of the sunny hallway, at a loss. It didn’t seem likely that anyone looking for her would pause to take a shower in her mother’s house. Still, someone was definitely in her mother’s shower, someone Fay hadn’t expected or she would have warned Laura.
She couldn’t go charging into the bathroom and demand to know what the naked man was doing here. Then again, he would be at a disadvantage…With a sigh she decided on discretion.
She could leave the way she had come. But that would mean a stranger—maybe a friend of her mother’s, but maybe not—would have free access to the house. What if he stole something? On the other hand, why would a thief stop to take a shower?
What if he stayed? She wasn’t prepared to wait outside until Fay came home to introduce him. She quietly closed the door behind her, shutting herself in with the stranger.
She was alone in the house with a strange man—probably not, all things considered, one of Johnny Tucker’s executioners, but still, a stranger. It would be nice to have some kind of protection, just in case. Her father had kept a baseball bat in the cupboard in the entrance hall. It was just the spine stiffener she needed. Once she had the baseball bat, it was only a few quick steps to her bedroom, where she would be out of sight. Unfortunately, she had to cross the living room to get the bat, which would put her in plain view of the main floor bathroom, from which issued the off-key baritone.
The door to the bathroom remained closed. If she hurried…
Without giving herself a chance to change her mind, she stepped down onto the hardwood floor of the sunken living room.
The shower stopped and the door to the bathroom opened, catching her in mid-tiptoe. She stared in amazement as a great cloud of steam billowed out of the bathroom. When it finally settled, she saw she still had a chance. The man had opened the door to clear the air. He now stood with his back to her, humming and lathering a shaving brush with soap. He was quite naked.
She squelched the part of her that wanted to giggle hysterically and resumed her stealthy advance through the living room, crouching as low as possible.
“Hey!” called the man, whipping around. “What the hell…?” He tried to tie a towel around his waist while still holding onto the shaving brush.
> With as much dignity as she could muster, Laura straightened from her crouch and turned to face the stranger.
Her first impression was of size—wide, heavy shoulders, muscled arms and a trim belly. A line of damp, dark hair led from his belly button and disappeared beneath the towel. Her face flamed with embarrassment, and she didn’t dare look lower. His thick, dark hair was slicked back from the shower and his cheeks were dark with stubble. His blue eyes were so dark they looked navy. They weren’t smiling.
Having successfully tied the towel around his waist, the man tossed the shaving brush into the sink and stepped out of the washroom. He seemed to fill the doorway, and she swallowed hard. Once he no longer blocked her view, Laura saw herself reflected in the mirror. It still bore the traces of his quick wipe.
Fighting an illogical sense of guilt, Laura kept quiet and watched. Let him talk first, she decided. Always a good tactical move.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “And what are you doing in Fay’s house?” There was no force behind his words. He stared at her with an odd expression, as if…
“Aha!” he cried, lifting a finger to point at her. “Wait right there!” Still clutching the towel around his waist, he stalked to her room, only to return a moment later with a framed picture in his hand.
“You’re Laura,” he said accusingly and turned the photo toward her. “You’re Fay’s daughter.”
Laura stared at her college graduation picture and sighed. So much for secrecy.
“I’m Fay’s daughter.” She pointed at the room he had so casually entered. “And that’s my room. You, on the other hand, are a mostly naked man in my mother’s house. Which do you think needs more explaining?”
Under her steady gaze, he hesitated. He glanced down at her picture, then at the puddles his wet feet had left on the hardwood floor. Finally he looked at the towel wrapped around his middle. A dark flush started somewhere in the region of his chest and climbed quickly to his hairline.
“Give me a minute to get dressed,” he said.
Laura nodded and he went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. She stared at it for a moment, suddenly unsure of her legs. She was in deep trouble. The last thing she needed was a wild card in the deck. Somehow she had to convince this man to keep quiet about her.
***
Mack dressed quickly and finished shaving without cutting himself. She was older than she was in the picture, of course, and much more attractive. The photographer hadn’t captured the strength in her face or the sensuality in the curve of her lips. He stuffed the towel and his dirty clothes into his backpack and stepped into the hallway. She wasn’t there. Then he noticed the puddles he had left on Fay’s floor and pulled the towel out of his backpack again.
Finally he climbed the stairs by twos and tossed the backpack into the corner of the kitchen. Laura was on the balcony, her back to him. The sun glinted off her shoulder-length hair, bringing out the auburn in it. She had made coffee, and he helped himself to a cup, using the moment to study her.
She was tall and lean, her jeans a bit too big in the butt for her. Long legs, wide shoulders. He wondered if she was a swimmer.
Fay hadn’t known Laura was coming, or she would have said something. Was there a problem? The woman had been skulking around as if she didn’t want to be seen. And why hadn’t she just waited until he came out of the shower to introduce herself, like a normal person?
Because he was buck naked, for one thing. And a stranger to her.
Mack almost groaned. It was one of Fay’s work days. He had—reasonably, he thought—assumed he was alone in the house. What a way to meet the woman he’d been hearing so much about all summer.
Well, don’t just stand there like an idiot, he told himself. Go talk to her!
Laura turned to face him as he opened the door. Her face was carefully neutral.
What is she thinking? he wondered.
“Hi,” he said, stepping closer. He put his hand out. “I’m Mack Hawkins.”
She shook his hand firmly. Her hand was warm and strong, and he found himself reluctant to release it. Finally she slid it out of his grasp, her color high.
“I’m…”
“Laura May Thorsen,” he said wryly, ignoring her wince at the use of her middle name, “star reporter for Montreal Magazine.” He smiled at her raised eyebrows. “Your mother made me read everything you’ve ever written, including a couple of high school essays.”
She blushed, looking confused, and he wondered why that surprised her. Surely it was normal for Fay to brag about her successful reporter daughter?
“I hadn’t realized Fay had kept my essays.” Her voice was low, and he tried to imagine how she sounded when she laughed.
She called her mother by her given name?
“Relax,” said Mack. “I didn’t mind—you’re a good reporter, and a better writer.”
An expression crossed her face, so fleeting that he wondered if he had imagined it. Why would his words cause her pain?
“Mr. Hawkins,” she said, “what are you doing here?”
For the first time, it occurred to him that Fay hadn’t told her about him.
“I room here,” he finally answered. “Or at least I did. I’m surprised she didn’t tell you.”
“You room here,” repeated Laura.
He watched her, fascinated. He could almost read her thoughts, just from watching the expressions chase each other on her face. She was wondering if Fay needed the money, or—horrors!—if there was something between him and her mother. She eyed him warily, obviously trying to judge his age.
I’m thirty-six, he wanted to say, but doubted that would help her.
“I…uh,” she faltered.
He took pity on her. “I’m your neighbor,” he said. “I’m building a house. Instead of driving in from town every day or living in a tent while it was under construction, Fay let me board here.”
Ah, relief.
“You finished your house?”
Then why were you in my mother’s shower? finished Mack silently. “I’ve moved into the basement of my house—it’s finished enough for that. But I still don’t have running water, which is why Fay lets me shower here.”
“Oh,” said Laura. Then she stopped and looked at him. “Um, which room…?”
“Your room,” he said quietly. “It’s closest to the door.”
In the sudden, awkward silence, they stared at each other. Finally Laura stirred.
“Do you like stew?”
***
When Fay arrived home, she decided to skip her usual garden visit. It was beginning to look exhausted, and its spent promise now saddened her. Besides, Laura was waiting.
She opened the door and stopped, staring at the handle. It wasn’t locked. Of course it wasn’t locked. She never locked it. She would have to remind Laura to keep it locked.
She pushed the door open and entered. An enticing smell and the sound of Laura’s laughter reached her at the same time. Smiling, Fay placed the carton of milk on the deacon’s bench and shrugged out of her jacket. She picked up the milk and was about to call out to Laura when a man laughed.
Holding her breath, Fay stepped into the doorway and looked up the stairs into the open kitchen to find the source of the laughter.
Time bent itself, and suddenly she saw herself at nineteen, standing in the unfinished kitchen, laughing up at Sawyer as she handed him a sandwich on a plate.
The milk carton slipped from her grasp and landed with a thud at her feet. Fay blinked down at it.
“Fay?”
Fay slowly looked up. Laura stood at the top of the stairs, frowning in concern. She held a cutting board on which rested a miniature loaf of bread.
“Fay, are you all right?” asked Mack. He stood next to Laura, an old wool shirt hanging outside his favorite blue jeans.
Relief threatened to rob her legs of strength. Mack, not Sawyer.
“Yes, of course I’m fine,” she replied, with only a faint t
remolo in her voice. She smiled at him.
Then, as if drawn by an invisible magnet, she looked beyond Mack, to where James stood insubstantially before the kitchen balcony door.
“Oh, my dear God,” she whispered. He had never come inside the house before.
Something in her face alarmed Laura and Mack. He ran down the stairs and took her arm, helping her down the one step into the living room and into the recliner by the window. She knew he was aware of her trembling, but couldn’t stop herself. Before she sank into the welcoming arms of the chair, she glanced up at the kitchen.
Gone.
Then Laura was by her side, pressing a glass of water into her hands.
“Drink,” ordered her daughter, and she obediently drank.
“Thank you, dear,” she said, clearing her throat when the words caught. “I’m fine, really.” She placed the glass on the telephone table next to the recliner and made to get up.
“Sure you are,” said Mack gently, forcing her back down. “But humor us.”
Fay couldn’t help but smile at him. He really was a nice young man. She glanced from one concerned face to another. Yes, he was a nice, young, unmarried man.
“What was that all about?” demanded Laura. As usual, concern sharpened her tone, making her sound angry.
“Just a dizzy spell,” lied Fay. “I didn’t have lunch today.”
Laura frowned and even Mack seemed ready to dispute her excuse.
She couldn’t tell them the truth—especially when she didn’t know what the truth was. Something had changed in the haunting. In the three months James and Sawyer had been haunting her, neither one had ever come into the house, as if by unspoken agreement. If not for the fact that she was losing her mind, it would be funny. That these two should agree in death when they had never agreed in life…
The sudden ringing of the telephone shattered the tense silence. She jumped and reached for it but Mack picked it up before she could.
On Her Trail Page 3