“Get inside,” the man told her. “I’ll bring them in when I’m done with the logs.”
“What about…?” She stared into the forest. As if on cue, the cougar wailed again.
“I’ll be fine.” He patted the pocket of his sheepskin coat. “I have a gun.”
“I should have guessed,” Rachel muttered. “You’re one walking arsenal.”
“It’s the way of life out here,” he replied, not rising to the challenge.
Rachel surveyed the supplies scattered by her feet. She gestured at the cartons and small plastic bags printed with appetizing pictures of vegetables and ready-made meals. “Would you like some of this food?” she asked. “Maybe you could eat a few things before they spoil.”
“I’d like a stew. Make it rich and hot, with lots of meat.” The man turned to the pile of uncut wood. “I’ll be half an hour.”
“I don’t believe this.” She rolled her eyes at his back. “Did you just invite yourself to dinner, after having told me that you don’t have time for sluts from the city?”
“I’ll sacrifice myself to save all that food from going to waste.”
Rachel watched the man remove the log she’d chosen from the stand and replace it with a bigger one. He’d already immersed himself in the task, moving swiftly. The frown of concentration on his face gave him a fierce look. Fear stirred in her gut. She’d been brought up to distrust men, even polite and civilized ones. Allowing this angry and volatile stranger into the cabin might be asking for trouble.
“Why are you offering to help me now?” she asked. “An hour ago you brandished a shotgun and ordered me to get off your land.”
The man paused, one booted foot wedged against the stand. “I saw you stumble and fall when you were running down the path,” he replied without turning to look at her. “I came down to make sure you weren’t hurt. And then I saw no lights on in the cabin, and you were trying to cut firewood. I realized that you really didn’t have power.”
A dismissive huff rose in her throat. “Why would I lie about it?”
Another cry of a predator echoed in the forest, breaking the silence.
“It’s getting late,” the man said, his back to her. “And I’m hungry. Either you’ll cook for me or you won’t, but either way this food has to be put away before I leave.”
Rachel mulled it over. People who wanted to take advantage usually tried to hide their nasty nature. The stranger’s abrasive manner reassured her, made her believe she’d already seen the worst of him. “All right,” she agreed with a sigh. “I’ll cook for you, but don’t expect anything sophisticated.”
“I’m satisfied with edible,” the man muttered, and started with the saw.
Shaking her head, Rachel crouched down and started to rummage through her supplies. Insufferable man, she fumed in silence, but as she fished out a packet of diced chicken and a bag of mixed vegetables, she admitted to the truth.
He might be a gun-toting woman hater, but he was still the closest to a date she’d had in almost a year. And, as long as he didn’t shoot her, she was grateful for anything that would take her mind off the mess she’d left behind, help her through her first evening in the lonely wilderness, half way up a mountain in Wyoming.
Chapter Two
Jed Ferguson stomped the snow off his boots and climbed up the front steps to the rustic mountain cabin. Drifts had collected in the corners of the porch. He raked a circle with the flashlight, looking for a brush. The city girl wouldn’t bother to sweep. She’d have no idea that the humidity in the shadow of the high deck was bad for the timber.
Don’t kid yourself.
His mouth tightened as honesty whispered the words into his ear.
He was just looking for an excuse to delay facing her.
While he’d labored cutting the firewood, she’d darted in and out of the yard, stacking the split logs into a hoop-shaped basket and carrying them inside, a little bit at a time. He’d ignored her, pretending to be absorbed in the task, but his nerves had rioted with awareness of her.
He’d overreacted earlier, nearly pointing a gun at her. Usually, an angry glare and a few harsh words were enough to chase off the women who invaded his privacy. This one had stood her ground. He’d gotten the impression that she’d been amused by his bluster, and the insult to his male pride had made him want to frighten her.
Stomping his feet a few more times to alert her to his arrival, Jed gathered his courage. As he pulled open the door and walked through, he cursed himself for listening to his guilty conscience and coming down the hill after he’d driven her off his property.
Hadn’t he had enough humiliation from the city folks?
Why did he have to go begging for more?
He found the woman standing at the far end of the galleried room. Candles flickered on the dining table. Two storm lanterns hung from brackets on the wall, creating an island of light that left the rest of the room in shadows. She’d changed into jeans and a soft white sweater. The clothes hugged her curves, making him imagine how it would feel to run his hands over the feminine contours. Before, her hair had been tucked into a knit cap. Now it cascaded in wild ringlets around her shoulders. He couldn’t tell the exact color, but it looked like somewhere between blond and a pale reddish brown.
When she turned, light caught the curls and made them glow in a thousand shades, from cinnamon to bronze and honey and gold. His gut tightened. The sensation had slammed into him earlier, when she’d wriggled in his arms, all soft and feminine, despite her frantic struggle to break free. He shouldn’t have grabbed her like that, but it had been the only way he’d been able to think of to stop her from hurting herself. The cost of his action had been high—it had felt as if every drop of blood in his body had drained into his groin. He had tried to conquer the rush of desire, but now it flooded back, powerful and bittersweet.
“Did you turn off the headlights and lock the car?” the woman asked.
“Yes.” He edged closer and dropped the set of keys on the table.
“The stew is almost ready.” Her brows inched up. “What about the bags of food?”
“I found a bear cabinet in the shed and put everything inside.”
“A bear cabinet?”
“A steel chest for storing food and other things with a strong odor. Frank and Linda Collins kept it on the porch and used it for barbeque coal. Now it was empty, stowed behind the snowmobile in the shed.”
“Frank and Linda Collins?”
“The people who owned this place before.”
“I see.” Her voice was flat, as if she sensed his resentment at the change.
Jed took off his hat and dropped it over a trio of umbrellas sticking out from a wrought iron stand. He looked around, inspecting the vaulted room. The kitchen was as he remembered it, cabinets with slatted wood doors. In the living area, the worn velvet sofas had been replaced with sectional seating covered in cowhide. The sturdy pine table and chairs were gone too, making way for a dining set in glass and chrome and leather.
“Hollywood comes to Pine Junction,” he muttered.
“Not Hollywood.” She shook her head. “Advertising is New York.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“No.” She moved to the wood-burning stove and lifted the lid on the cast iron pot that simmered on top. “I work in Los Angeles, in an area called Century City.”
Spicy smells rose in the air. He inhaled deeply, keeping his silence.
“And I guess you’re from here?” she prompted.
“Born and bred.” He drifted over to the window and propped one hip on the sill, crossing his arms over his chest. “The frost is going to last another couple of days, but then the forecast is for a warm spell. Your food will start rotting by Monday.”
“I was thinking…” She gave him a hesitant glance.
“I’m not a mind reader,” he said bluntly.
Her brows drew together, making her expression pinched. Jed didn’t regret the harsh tone. It
was better to keep a distance between them. He didn’t want the evening to turn into a man having a candlelit dinner with a woman. He didn’t want it to turn into anything at all, and yet he couldn’t make himself leave.
“I’m here for a few weeks, six at the most, until the holiday season swings into full force.” She stirred the stew and spoke lightly, but the rigid set of her shoulders revealed the tension she tried to hide. “I hadn’t planned to drive down to Jackson for supplies. I was thinking, perhaps I could cook for you, and anyone else in your household. That way, I could use my perishables before they go off. Then, if I were to run out of food, perhaps you might let me have whatever you can spare.”
His eyes narrowed. Without thinking, Jed blurted out his thoughts.
“You’re not like the others.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “What others?”
“The women who come traipsing up the hill to knock on my door.”
She fought a grin and lost. “The fashion people.”
“Right.” Restless, Jed pushed away from the windowsill and moved to the kitchen window. Peering out into the darkness, he could make out the shape of her silver SUV and the storage shed on the right. He turned to face the room again and spoke, almost to himself. “They ripped out the old bathroom last summer. The workmen were here for weeks. I guess it’s all pink marble and gold-plated taps now.”
“It’s not. Actually, it’s black and white, in very good taste.” She pointed with the wooden spoon toward the staircase leading up to the galleried landing. “Go and have a look, if you like. Of course, it’s not much use now, without hot water.”
“I’ll see if I can figure out why the power’s failed. There hasn’t been a storm.” He strode back to the living area, shrugged out of his sheepskin coat and hung it on one the chrome and leather chairs, struggling to get it to stay up over the low back and wide arms. “Is it all right if I keep my boots on?” he asked as he bent to extract the flashlight from a pocket. “I’d like to be able to rush out if the animals in the barn get restless, in case there’s a predator about.”
“Of course.” Her eyes widened. “Do you sleep with your boots on?”
Jed turned to hide his rising color in the shadows. “Sometimes,” he said in a low voice. “And if you want to cook any food that might go to waste, it’s just me. I live alone.”
He sought refuge in the den that housed the fuse box.
Fool, he told himself.
It’s all going to end in disaster.
When a woman was involved, things always did.
* * * *
Rachel watched the taciturn stranger emerge from the small windowless room she’d barely peeked into. It contained a heavy oak desk with a modern computer, and boxes upon boxes full of old issues of glossy magazines.
When the man got closer, the light from the storm lanterns fell on his face. She could see a streak of dust on his forehead, partly covered by the thick wedge of black hair. The sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt had been rolled up to expose lean but powerful wrists, and forearms corded with sinew and muscle.
“Can you fix it?” she asked, bright with hope. Despite his appalling manners, she didn’t doubt her neighbor’s practical abilities.
“Stand back from the ceiling lights,” he instructed. “Look toward the floor.”
Rachel followed the order, without question, which wasn’t like her at all.
He disappeared back into the den. She heard a click. For a second, the lights came on. Then they flickered, crackled like miniature lightning, and died again. The man reappeared, rolling his broad shoulders. He must have struggled to cram his rangy body into the confined space on the other side of the desk, where she’d seen a narrow metal cupboard she’d assumed to be a gun safe for storing hunting rifles.
He shut the den door behind him. “You’ve got an electric short,” he informed her and propped the flashlight on the table. “The old wire fuses have been replaced with modern trip ones. When I tried to reset the fuse, it tripped again, so it’s not just an overload from a burned-out bulb. This place has been unoccupied since September. My guess is that a mouse has chewed through a plastic wire somewhere, exposing the copper thread.
“Could you repair it?” she asked. “I’ll be happy to pay whatever it costs.”
“Maybe in daylight, but I don’t have the time right now. It could turn into a big job, crawling around the house, inspecting every inch of wiring. I’ll see what I can do when the thaw comes over the weekend.”
Rachel sighed. “So it’s candlelight dinners, cold showers, and stovetop cooking.”
“You’ve got it.” He nodded toward the wood-burning stove. “You ought to be grateful the fashion people didn’t rip that out and put in a fancy fireplace. Otherwise you’d be doing your cooking at the end of a barbeque stick.”
“Always look on the bright side,” she muttered.
He threw her a sour glance. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.” She bit her lip. “It’s just…it’s something my mother used to say. She died a few years ago.”
The expression on the man’s stern face softened. With a start Rachel realized that what she’d taken as a scowl was in fact his features in repose. The scars on the left side tugged the skin a little, creating the impression that his full mouth was perpetually set in a brooding curve.
“Would you like to sit down?” she asked. “I’ll dish out the food.”
He raised his hands to chest height, palms up, and flexed his fingers, inspecting them. In the dull light of the storm lanterns, the act looked oddly threatening. Like an animal baring its claws.
“I need to wash,” he said.
“Your choices are the kitchen sink, or the bathroom upstairs.” She pointed in either direction. “Take your pick.”
“I’m almost afraid to see what they did to the bathroom,” the man drawled as he reached for the flashlight he’d put down a moment ago. Then he seemed to hesitate before crossing the room to his sheepskin coat. With a quick glance at her, he took out a compact black handgun and shoved it into the waistband of his jeans at the back.
“Just normal gun carrying practice,” he explained, a little awkward. “Never leave a firearm unsecured where someone could stumble upon it and have an accident. You might have decided to hang up my coat while I was out of sight.”
Her only reply was a nod.
She watched him climb up the stairs. The worn jeans molded around the powerful thighs. The muscles in his forearm flexed as he gripped the handrail. It surprised Rachel that he’d bothered to justify his actions to her. She suspected he’d seen through her, knew she was in trouble, and didn’t want to risk her going off the rails with his gun.
A groan escaped her at the thought.
Many times, she’d wished her life to be less boring, less predictable. Now that something had happened to shatter the dull days of her existence, all she could think of was how much she’d like to be asleep in her luxury condo, waiting for the alarm to go off, so that she could get into her Mercedes and drive to the office.
Soon, she told herself.
A few weeks, and then I can get my life back.
* * * *
Jed eased his way down the stairs, guided only by the lantern light from below. He knew he shouldn’t be in the house with her. And he certainly shouldn’t have snooped about in the modern bedroom and the luxury bathroom, the way he’d just done.
But he was, and he had.
He’d been driven by the need to know more about her, make sure she wasn’t part of some elaborate joke at his expense. Ever since that day at the lake, when he’d gotten everything wrong, the fashion people had been poking fun at him.
For the rest of the summer, scantily clad seductresses had wandered up the hill to seek him out. No doubt those women had set up some sort of a competition over who could corrupt the morals of the country pumpkin who’d taken offense to nothing worse than daring swimsuit poses for a fashion spread.
/> The hard shell he’d hidden behind all his life had grown thicker.
He didn’t want to let anyone through.
Not even this one, despite her guileless smile and her delicate features, and a soft body that could keep a man awake at night as he imagined the things he could do to her.
“My name’s Jed Ferguson,” he said when he reached the table. “What’s yours?”
“Rachel…Goldman.”
He kept his expression bland. The empty envelope he’d seen stuck between the pages of a book on the dresser in the bedroom had been addressed to Rachel James. Perhaps she was getting divorced, and was changing back to her maiden name. Or, she might have just married and taken her husband’s name.
Jed quashed the irritation the idea stirred inside him.
“What brings you here, Rachel?” he asked, and settled into the leather chair.
She carried the big stewpot to the table, her hands protected inside a pair of scarlet oven mittens. After lowering the pot onto a slate holder, she pulled off the mittens and found an empty spot to lay them down on the glass top.
He reached over to move the padded mittens further away from the candles. She’d realized the danger at the same time and tried to remedy her error. Their hands collided. Jed pulled his arm back, as if scalded.
Careful, he told himself. It would just end in tears.
Remaining on her feet, Rachel picked up his empty plate and began to ladle stew into it. “I got into a spot of trouble,” she told him. “Nothing major, but my boss thought it would be a good idea for me to take some time off, so that if things blew up, the situation wouldn’t reflect badly on the firm. I expect to be back at work in the New Year.”
She handed the full plate to him.
“What do you do?” he asked, his eyes following her movements.
“I’m a tax attorney,” she said. “And you? Have you always lived alone?”
“Not when I was a kid.”
Her amused chuckle grated on his nerves. He hadn’t meant it as a joke, but a statement of fact. Those two women he’d eavesdropped on years ago must have been right—he possessed no sense of humor. Perhaps once he had, but it had died over the years. His hand rose to touch the scars on his cheek, but he caught himself in time and instead raked his fingers through his hair.
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