THE TIME STAR

by Georgina Lee

  She tipped her head. He had a journal? Would he write about her? If she had a journal, what would she write? She was no good at committing words to paper. Being a tomboy all her life, she'd focused more on games and sports. "I'm supposed to go to a hockey game this evening with some friends," she murmured.

  Thomas lifted his brows. "You like to watch ice hockey?"

  Ice hockey? What other kind of hockey was there to watch this time of year? She'd played her share of street and ball hockey, but not in the winter. Waneeta nodded, swallowing the last of her tea. "Yes. Do you?"

  "Not as much as I like to play it," he answered.

  "Who's your favorite team?"

  "Whichever one I'm playing for."

  She laughed, hearing it echo through the small cabin. Hearing it drown out the renewed peals of those warning bells again. "That's funny. Well, I'm a Toronto fan."

  "Toronto! Do you travel down to watch them play?"

  Shaking her head she answered, "No, not for years. I hardly even catch them on TV anymore. Too busy."

  Thomas frowned. "Teevee? Like teepee?"

  Waneeta stood to clear the table. "No, TV. No point talking about that here, is there? You don't even have hydro here."

  "Hydro?" he queried.

  She stopped halfway between him and dry sink. "You're not from Ontario, eh?"

  Eyebrows raised, he shook his head. "No, I'm from upper New York State, though my father was born in Kingston. How did you know?"

  "People everywhere else call it either 'power' or 'electricity'. Though, my grandmother was from New Brunswick and she called it 'the lights', but we knew she meant the power. In Ontario, though, we've always called it the hydro."

  Thomas frowned. "I'll have to write those words down in my journal, to remember them."

  Waneeta shook her head. This was getting, well, too weird.

  Yet, Thomas was, well, intriguing. So totally unlike the jerks she'd met over the years. So what if he was a bit eccentric? There was no law against that. Frankly, it was refreshing.

  They spent the next hour cleaning and tidying the cabin wordlessly until Waneeta noticed dawn seeping through the tiny window. Afterward, peering out the frosted pane, she commented, "I don't think I've been up this early in ages. I mean I'm up before the sun in the winter, of course, but not on a day off." She could see the wind still driving fat snowflakes at the cabin. The forecasters had predicted much less than this storm was giving.

  Extinguishing the lamp, Thomas glanced sideways at his companion. She was bent over, peering out the window and revealing a rounded bottom he shouldn't be staring at.

  She straightened, smoothing her hair. "I must look a sight. I didn't want to break your comb, so I didn't touch my hair. But I could use a change of clothes."

  "You look fine, Miss. But, if you don't mind me asking, why didn't you have a dress with you? Most ladies travel with a change of clothes, don't they?" Seeing her grimace, he instantly grimaced. "I mean, the ones I know do. I think."

  Waneeta laughed and like before, its music danced around his soul. "A dress!" she balked, pulling outward on a pinch of her long johns. "And wear it over my snowsuit?" she said between laughs. "You don't have any sisters, do you?"

  Thomas' smile faded. "I have two. And they-"

  Before he could finish, she blurted out, "Are you married?"

  He paused, studying her. Was she holding her breath? He finally answered, "No." A moment later, he added, "Are you?" She didn't wear a wedding ring, but he had to hear it from her mouth. Suddenly, he realized that he, too, was holding his breath.

  "No, I'm not."

  There is a God, he thought.

  They'd both held their breaths. He knew why he held his, but was hers the same reason? Was she as intrigued by him as he was by her?

  What could they possibly do about it?

  For both their sakes, he decided he needed to keep the mood light, not wanting to answer his own question. No, he needed to consider her reputation, and his father's dream.

  The dream that was now souring in his stomach. Still, he forced out his most charming smile. "Not married yet? I find it hard to believe the men in Pembroke are so blind."

  Was this man for real? Waneeta laughed self-consciously, ignoring the warning bells again. "Well, I've been busy working, saving my money to buy a house."

  "Working!" he interjected. "Doing what?"

  "I'm the manager of a sports store."

  "A manager! Of a sports store? But you're a woman!"

  Waneeta laughed incredulously. She couldn't let this one pass. "Glad you noticed! I've worked hard to get where I am. Don't you think I know anything about sports?"

  Hurriedly, he answered, "It's not that, Miss. It's just you shouldn't have to work. I mean, you're the type of lady that should lead a pampered life."

  "Good grief, I haven't yet!"

  "I'd put you on a pedestal. Under glass," he said softly.

  Waneeta heard the alarm bells ring again, louder. Much louder. "Here?" she teased, weakly. "For what? The local chipmunk population?"

  Without answering, Thomas reached forward and lifted one of her lazy curls from her neck, his knuckles brushing her skin, causing every nerve to tingle. Waneeta's blood pounded in her veins and butterflies fluttered deep in her belly. It was all she could do to stop herself from laying her cheek on his hand.

  Thomas analyzed the color of her hair. "This is a unique colour. You're a brunette, yet this morning, it's suddenly much lighter."

  After a moment of strained silence, he spoke. "For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood. They flash upon that inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude. And then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils."

  That did it for Waneeta. She didn't know of any man who quoted poetry. The very romantic core within her surged outward and silenced those stupid warning bells that had clanged all too often when Thomas spoke.

  Fingering the wavy tendril, he said, "Wordsworth. My father taught Literature, and my mother loved flowers."

  "Did they dance in the daffodils?"

  Thomas let the curl fall. He watched it come to rest on her shoulder. "Not that I know of."

  Suddenly, he hauled her into his arms, and Waneeta let out a gasp. "Come, dance with me!" he ordered and whirled her about, moving to a rhythm in his mind.

  Waneeta laughed. Caught up in his spontaneous dance, she tried to follow. But only he heard the music, and she trod on his feet for proof. "Oh, I'm sorry!" she cried out as he quite deftly played the injured party, clutching his bruised toes and pulling a terrible face. She grabbed his arms. "I'm afraid I can't hear the music!"

  Thomas immediately dropped his foot and yanked her close. Waneeta lost her breath somewhere between grabbing his hard biceps and his hauling her into his chest. Was it her imagination, or could she really see hunger in his eyes? Maybe it was a reflection of the need that coursed through her. She ran a nervous tongue over her lips, parting them after. Thomas tightened his grip on her, and she felt his hard frame press against her.

  His chest crushed her breasts, but she couldn't find the voice to object. She wasn't planning on looking for it, either. Thomas had finally interpreted her body language correctly. She caught a smoldering look a moment before he lowered his head.

  At first, his kiss was barely there, as he held his lips just high enough to skim hers, but the anticipation burned her. Then, he shifted slightly, in a way that was barely perceptible. Their lips met. Firmly, connecting with a purpose that was designed to ignite, to explore, to push all boundaries.

  Waneeta answered his passion with equal fervor. They teased the other's mouth with their tongues. Each explored the warm sweetness of the other. Thomas ran the tip of his tongue across her teeth. She answered the boldness with a nip, forgetting all but that moment in time. She wrapped her arms around his neck, tunneling her fingers through his hair. She could feel his arms tighten and pull her closer than any man had done before. He crushed an arm agai
nst her bruised side. It was the sweetest agony she'd ever known and yet she knew he could give her sweetness to match. She knew how, too, and she wanted it, and she dug her fingers into his arms to pull him closer.

  Thomas dared to push himself on this lady and risk her shoving him away.

  She did not. She gripped and held him as if her very life depended on it. Indeed, both their lives depended on it, for the breath they shared was losing the potency needed to sustain them.

  When he finally drew away, Thomas knew there could only be her, Waneeta Meadows, in his life, now. He would have to give her up today, tomorrow at the latest, but it wouldn't be forever. She'd return to Pembroke after he'd taken her to the Eganville train station, but he would search for her when spring came and he would find her.

  Then they'd return here, to finish what he'd started.

  Except, what about his father's dream?

  Slowly, he backed away.

  Flustered by his powerful kiss, Waneeta tripped lightly backwards.

  Thomas reached for her. Unnerved by her reaction to his kiss, he offered a shaky apology, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have stopped so suddenly."

  "It takes two to tango." She grimaced inwardly at the stupid remark.

  "Tango?"

  Waneeta frowned. It wasn't the first time he had queried her choice of words. Even as the bells started their clanging again, she remembered he'd quoted Wordsworth to her. And now, his fingers caressed her arms, and those stupid bells were just set to confuse her. They were crazy, a foolish reaction to her jaded view of men made louder because of the accident.

  Thomas was not just a man. He was all she had ever wanted in a man. So those damn bells could go to hell for all she cared.

  Chapter 6

  "Tell me another story, Thomas," Waneeta pleaded as he settled down on his makeshift bed.

  By dusk, the storm had finally blown itself out, and though Waneeta knew she should leave, as Kevin's non-appearance concerned her greatly, she found herself hanging on.

  She'd offered the bunk to Thomas, saying her side wasn't sore any longer, but he shot her a startled look and coolly declined her offer. Again, Waneeta suppressed a smile. Was there nothing this man wouldn't do for her?

  At his place on the plank floor, giving her a long, silent look that offered little clues to his thoughts, Thomas crossed his legs. She knew if he were to walk over to her, she would open the blankets and invite him in. Yet, oddly, the thought didn't scare her as much as it should have.

  "There's one story about the Madawaska River," he began, breaking into her thoughts.

  She leaned forward with anticipation. The Madawaska River joined many lakes on its journey from the park to the Ottawa River. "Let's hear it." She'd rather sit there, drinking in his face, his thick biceps, his long, lean legs, and lazy smile wondering all the while what their evening would bring. But if he entertained her with another story, she'd take that as well.

  He began, "One section of the Madawaska River is full of shoals and sharp rocks. In the spring, when the water level is high, these rocks are hidden, making them even more dangerous. These are called slides, by the way. Sometimes the sticks of timber get caught on them, then break away suddenly."

  "Sticks? You make the logs sound so small."

  "That's what they're called. These sticks, about 25 of them, are tied together to form a crib. Then they tie the cribs together to form a dram. Several drams together are a raft, and they float these rafts downstream to the mills."

  "Whoa! That's a lot of lumber!"

  "Yes, but when the river isn't deep enough to carry them, they break them down into drams, or even further into cribs to run the slides. One section of the river is particularly bad. That's where, one time, a man was driving a crib directly toward the jagged rocks."

  He paused. Waneeta leaned forward, her lips parted. What a delight to listen to him. Pure pleasure of word, where actions would not do.

  "What happened?" she asked.

  "The timbers were driven hard against the rocks." He lingered in silence a moment. "He was caught between the logs when the crib buckled."

  She frowned. "Oh! He died?"

  "Yes. When his fiancé heard what happened, she became so distraught, she fled down to the river and threw herself into the same rapids. Now, sometimes, when the moon is full, you can see the two lovers meeting in the river."

  Thomas smiled slowly, obviously savoring her riveted attention. "They say it was their love that brought them together."

  "So their love transcended death?"

  "Eloquent and accurate. Don't you think love is powerful enough to bring two spirits together?"

  Waneeta drew in a long, uneasy breath. Thomas lured her in with persuasive eyes. Believe in love, they said.

  I want to, hers answered. Help me. I've been too cynical, too long.

  Those words caught in her throat. And, Thomas, what was he saying? That they were the two spirits brought together by love? Did he truly believe love could release even the bonds of death?

  She and Thomas met because of a storm, but he talked as though something greater, more overwhelming than simple snow had been at work here. What was it?

  Love? Death?

  Was love that strong? She savoured the idea in her mind, pushing aside her twenty-first century cynicism, allowing herself to be drawn in by his words, his soft, trusting manner.

  Could love really be that strong? Did she even believe in love?

  She leaned forward, her thoughts smoldering within her very core. Thomas watched her, his gaze rolling over her frame. She could feel him, even though he sat on his bedroll at the other end of the small cabin.

  She could feel him as easily as if his hands were on her right now. Whoa. Too much, too soon. Too crazy, this talk of love and death, of spirits and passion. This wasn’t her. She didn’t do love stories. She was a woman who wanted to live her own life with her own style of femininity. She would like to say her life was a reflection of equality and women's rights, but she'd had to push for all she had and she refused to compromise on what she'd earned.

  Waneeta cleared her throat. "So how come you can only see these two ghosts when the moon is full?"

  There was a pause. "Maybe because the moon is very romantic."

  His words were soft, hardly heard over the crackling fire he’d recently banked. It would be so easy to yield to the temptation in his deep voice. He could seduce her with a single, penetrating look, one easy whisper. One word of pure romance. And she'd love it.

  Immediately, Waneeta backed off emotionally. "Maybe there's no point in looking for them when you can't see them."

  He chuckled softly. "I like my answer better."

  Waneeta looked out the window, briefly, "Is there a full moon tonight?"

  He shook his head, watching her intently.

  "Then am I safe from all this powerful love?" she teased, despite her pounding heart.

  For a long, difficult minute, as he sat cross-legged on the floor, he stared at her with those intense blue eyes. His smile had long since faded. "I can’t promise you that, Waneeta," he told her quietly. "Love doesn't promise anything but itself."

  A thrill shot through her. It took all of her willpower not to slip from the bunk, not to go to him, not to ask him to make love to her beside the hearth on his warm, white blankets before she would have to leave tomorrow.

  Oh, Kevin, why haven't you come yet? Things would be different, then. Safer.

  "Goodnight, Thomas," she whispered.

  A shadow of disappointment swept over his face. "Goodnight, Waneeta." He lay down on his makeshift pillow and closed his eyes.

  She slept better that night, only out of sheer emotional exhaustion. She knew what her body was telling her, but just because she was attracted to an incredibly handsome man and vice versa didn't mean she should fall into bed with him. A girl must be careful. In her mind's eye, she could see his smoldering look again. Another day with him would certainly erode any willpower left within her.r />
  The sun was high the second morning when Waneeta finally broached the subject of leaving. All had been quiet up until then. Even the small talk that started the day was brief and difficult. Breakfast was simple like yesterday, and their day appeared to be repeating itself, but when Waneeta suggested she'd better go, Thomas knew how true that was. If she stayed any longer, things would become much different. And far more complicated.

  When Thomas suggested he accompany her into the village to find a ride to Eganville, Waneeta asked, "How will you return?"

  "With my snowshoes."

  He pointed to a set of old fashioned snowshoes propped up in the corner.

  Waneeta shook her head. "Better you than me. I’m not very good on them, I’m afraid. But we'll take my Skidoo in."

  "Skidoo?"

  "Yes, it's buried halfway up your trail. I bent the ski when I hit a rock, but it should get us into the village if we take our time. I'll need your help to find it under all this new snow, though. And set it upright."

  Thomas nodded, curious to see this contraption, and how she handled it. He looked forward to her surprising him yet again.

  A short while later, dressed back in her pockmarked suit, Waneeta stepped out into the bright day and turned to face the cabin. "You know, this place doesn’t seem that old fashioned, after all. Merely quaint, like what you'd see on a Christmas card."

  She turned and Thomas found himself smiling at her. When she returned it and his grin faltered, his heart lurched as he considered all his thoughts from last night.

  Together they plowed into the woods, Thomas in his snowshoes breaking trail ahead of her. Waneeta inhaled the crisp air deeply as they pushed through the heavy snow. It was much colder than the early spring-like days they’d had so far. As much as she liked winter, after the mild days so far this month, she was ready for spring.

  "Waneeta," he blurted out as they walked, "Would you consider being my wife?"

  Waneeta stumbled to a stop behind him. She gawked at him, eyes wide, and feeling her jaw drop like a stone. He wore fresh clothes and knee-high leather mukluks, looking like the one of the lumberjacks he’d mentioned. So quaint, so old-fashioned, but she bit her bottom lip. Was that what she was afraid of? Of him being so old-fashioned, when she was determined to be so modern?