by Amy Frazier
Turning to unload the llamas, Samantha instantly felt an easing of her agitation. Their patience, their gentle humming, their looks that seemed to say, “You humans make life so complicated,” allowed her to find her center.
The physical exertion helped, too. Unloading tents and coolers and personal backpacks, she placed them far enough up the trail that the llamas couldn’t reach them, yet not so close to the lake area as to be in Garrett and Rory’s way.
Although the treetops along the ridge were gilded with sunlight, an early twilight had descended here in the lake basin. Once the llamas were free of their loads, they assumed a kush position. Chewing their cuds, they settled in for a well-deserved rest.
Samantha retrieved a pair of work gloves from her backpack before returning to the campsite, where she found Garrett and Rory hip deep in the lake, wrestling with a waterlogged tire. Having made quite a pile of trash just outside the clearing, they were soaked and thoroughly mucked up and looked as if they were having the time of their lives.
“We thought we’d get the heavy stuff first,” Garrett called out when he saw Samantha. He couldn’t keep the pride and pleasure from his voice. Rory was handling this whole situation like a man. And he was discovering how good it felt to work alongside his son. As equals.
“Some of that junk is a health hazard,” he remarked as Samantha shook out a garbage bag with a determined set to her shoulders. “I’m glad to see you have gloves.”
“All the better to strangle whoever did this,” she replied with a ferocity that surprised him. When they’d first come upon the scene, he’d been afraid she was going to fall apart.
He hated to admit it, but as soon as Samantha joined them, his focus became fragmented. He found himself watching her as she set about the task at hand with an energy equal to either his or Rory’s—but with a certain vulnerability mixed with her competence. This trashing of a special place on her property had rattled her, highlighting that she wasn’t from here. Didn’t understand that these things—unpleasant as they were—happened in an area where the kids had limited opportunities both in the job market and in recreation. If Red still owned the property, the No Trespassing signs would be strictly enforced. The old man would shoot up anyone who disregarded them, knowing the local law was on his side.
“I think that does it for the lake,” Rory said, startling Garrett out of his thoughts.
“Good job, son.” He turned to Samantha. “Since we’re already dirty, we can take over the garbage pickup around the fire pit and you can begin to set up camp. We’ll clear a place for the tents first.”
Suddenly, Samantha looked very unsure of herself.
“What’s wrong?”
“N-nothing.” Without another word she turned back down the trail to where the llamas were tied and the equipment stacked.
As Garrett picked up the trash and Rory swept the ground smooth with an evergreen branch, Samantha schlepped the folded tents, the coolers, the personal backpacks and what seemed like a ton of miscellaneous equipment. And then she hesitated.
“I’m going to look for firewood,” Rory said. “And then I’m having a swim to cool off.”
“Need help?” Garrett asked Samantha.
She didn’t answer.
“What’s wrong?”
She was staring at the tents, which, in their present state lying unassembled on the ground, looked like three large strips of freeze-dried seaweed. There was a little-girl-lost expression on her face.
He washed his hands in the lake before coming to stand next to her. “Have you ever been camping before?”
The in-control woman quickly snapped to attention. “Of course I have.”
“Where?”
“In Kenya. On safari.”
Now there was a different ballgame. “Did you put up your own tents?” He could see the answer coming.
“No. We had…attendants.” She sighed. “But how hard can it be? These were advertised as extremely easy trail models.”
He knelt down to examine them. He’d give her credit for buying top-of-the-line. Nothing like the primitive lean-tos Mack and he had constructed as kids—when they’d even bothered to put shelter over their heads. He found the appropriate tab on the first tent and pulled. The thing popped up like a toadstool after a spring rain.
“Wow, that makes me feel foolish!” she exclaimed.
He wanted to ask her if she was the kind of person who had to have a handle on everything in every situation. If this drive for perfection had driven her to drink. Instead, he busied himself locating the tab on the second tent. “Okay, your turn.”
She pulled the tab, and, as the second tent sprang up, she laughed. “This is as much fun as popping bubble wrap.”
“Then the third one’s yours.” He didn’t quite share her enthusiasm for either pastime, but he was mesmerized by Samantha herself. By how she could be strong and vulnerable, sad and happy, exotic and down-to-earth all at the same time.
She was someone who, if he’d met her under different circumstances, would definitely spark an interest. Who was he kidding? She already had. Problem was, he’d bet his last dollar she’d be gone before the fall leaves turned color. Gone with nothing remaining but a For Sale sign stuck by Whistling Meadows’ roadside.
Scowling, he made himself busy securing the tents a safe distance from the fire pit.
“Hey, those are really cool tents.” Rory came back with an armload of firewood. “Looks like I’m just in time. It’s getting dark.”
“If you start the fire,” Samantha said, taking foil-wrapped packages out of the cooler, “I’ll start supper.”
“What are we having?”
“Red’s Surprise. At least, that’s what he calls it. Spicy chicken and veggies. I just followed his directions.”
Placing sleeping bags and backpacks in each tent, Garrett listened to the easy conversation between his son and this woman who’d arrived in town to captivate just about everyone. He thought about Noelle, who had been raised here, and how she’d never seemed to fit in. How when they’d married and had Rory she’d always refused to go on family camping trips. Her idea of roughing it was anything less than a suite at one of the best hotels. Then he thought about how good it felt to be celebrating his son’s birthday on a llama trek, of all things, and tried not to fall under Samantha’s spell.
“Hey.” She spoke so softly he was startled to find her standing right next to him. “You forgot the air mattresses.”
“This must be the Ritz version of camping out.”
He thought he saw her flinch. “Let’s just say this is a prototype trek. I’m counting on your feedback. If I choose to offer overnights, I want them to be enjoyable. Comfortable.”
Ah, yes. There it was. He’d forgotten that to her this was business. He suspected the whole llama operation was just an experiment. Maybe it would fly, maybe not. With her parents’ money behind her, no big deal. He’d intended to join Rory in that swim after they’d finished setting up. Call his sudden realization an advanced splash of cold water.
Samantha wondered at Garrett’s cool stare. “You don’t want an air mattress?”
“Sure, you can put one under my sleeping bag. If it goes with the package deal, why not?” He looked toward Rory, who was tethering the three llamas closer to the campsite. “You ready for that swim?” he asked his son.
“You bet.”
“Last one in’s a rotten egg!”
Before Samantha could say she’d forgotten to bring towels, man and boy kicked off their hiking boots, then raced down the embankment in the growing darkness to throw themselves—fully clothed—into the water, where their shouts echoed off the mountains.
The primitive nature of their play captivated her. An only child, she’d always been exhorted to behave “like a lady.” When she’d been able to escape to her father’s stables, she’d done so with the proper riding habit, the proper equipment, the proper horse. Proper. Even the family’s hotel empire was aimed at a clientele who
fundamentally appreciated proper even as they craved luxurious. She couldn’t imagine one of the guests at the Singapore Ashley romping in a frigid mountain lake. Funny, but now she found it hard to picture herself even standing in the lobby of any one of her father’s properties.
As she finished inflating the air mattresses and putting one in each of the tents, she resisted the urge to throw a little granola on the top of each sleeping bag. Gourmet chocolate, who needed it?
Turning toward the fire to check on supper, she saw a most amazing sight. Garrett had emerged from the lake. As he walked up the embankment, he was stripping off his T-shirt, revealing a rock-hard chest, muscles rippling in the firelight. Without an ounce of self-consciousness, he flung the wet shirt over a low-lying tree branch, then unbuttoned his jeans.
When she gasped, he stopped, and Rory, shaking like a dog, plowed into the back of him.
“I—I didn’t bring towels,” she said.
“Don’t need ’em,” he replied with a slow quirk on one side of his mouth. “We each brought a change of clothes. These’ll be dry enough in the morning.”
Rory checked each tent for his backpack. When he found it, he started to strip. “Samantha, turn away. Puleeze.”
She didn’t know where to look. If she turned away from Rory, she could see Garrett, who hadn’t moved and who was regarding her with a sexy twinkle of amusement. “I take it you didn’t have brothers.”
“No.” Grabbing a pair of tongs, she knelt by the fire to flip the foil packets she’d tucked in the coals. The parcels sizzled and emitted a wonderful aroma of cooking meat and vegetables. Red had assured her it was the hungry man special. Quick and easy. “Supper’s almost ready.”
Behind her the sounds of rustling could only mean Garrett, too, was changing into dry clothes. Supper she could control. Her imagination she could not.
A bat swooped overhead as the stars began to appear in the night sky. The fire crackled, sending sparks into the air. And despite the unsettling attraction she felt for one sheriff out of uniform, Samantha felt a peace descend on her. Out here on Russert’s Mountain—her land—she didn’t have to be anyone other than Samantha Weston. A woman who owned llamas and made a decent camp meal. If she didn’t yet know exactly who she was, this was a good start.
“Smells good.” Garrett appeared by her side.
She stood, then looked him in the eye. Sort of resisting temptation by confronting it. “You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me.”
“I might be accused of doing many things,” he replied with a wry smile, “but sneaking isn’t one of them.” He took the tongs from her hands. “I’ll watch supper if you want to take a dip.”
“I—I wasn’t planning on it.” Now why did her pulse pick up? “I’m chief cook and bottle washer here. You’re the guests.”
“I think we’re beyond that. Unless—” he cast a glance over his shoulder at the stacks of trash bags just beyond the perimeter of the campsite “—litter patrol was part of the recreation program.”
“It wasn’t. And I thank you for your help.”
“Does it make up for the rattlesnake?” There wasn’t so much apology in his gaze as a real concern for her feelings on the subject.
Before she could answer, Rory rolled a big log up to the fire. “I’m starving.”
“I see you brought your own chair,” Samantha replied as she found the mess kits.
Garrett retrieved the food packets from the fire and placed them on a nearby rock. Expertly, he folded back the foil on one, then poured the contents into the mess kit Samantha held out. The spiced chicken, peppers, onions, tomatoes and corn on the cob made her mouth water, but she handed the first portion to Rory. The second she offered Garrett, but he said, “Go ahead, eat. I’ll get this last one.”
“I hope you brought stuff to make s’mores,” Rory said around a mouthful as Samantha took a seat beside him on the log.
“You bet. How’s the chow?”
“Excellent. Red can’t say you’re a lousy cook anymore.”
“Did he really say I was a lousy cook?” She laughed. “Well, I was. But I’m not now.” And that, in a nutshell, could be her life motto.
“Scoot down.” His own supper in hand, Garrett strode over to the log.
Instead of sitting next to Rory, where there was room, he was standing at her end, which clearly had no room for anyone else. Before she could point out the obvious, Rory obligingly moved, and Samantha found herself sandwiched between the two guys. Rory gave her space, but Garrett didn’t.
“I want to know if you’re still angry with me over the rattlesnake,” he said.
She’d let her anger go as soon as Garrett had understood how important it was to restore some sense of order to the campsite. Even if she hadn’t forgiven him then, it would have been difficult to remain annoyed with him now while his thigh rested against hers. Call her a fool, but there was something basic and very appealing about his touch.
“No,” she replied, “I’m not mad at you. Why do you ask?”
He turned to look directly at her. “Maybe because your good opinion of me matters.”
That might have been the loveliest thing anyone had ever said to her. Paying customer or not, the man was clearly taking unfair advantage.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AT THE CRACK OF DAWN, SAMANTHA crawled out of her sleeping bag to feed the llamas. When she opened the tent flap, she saw four figures standing absolutely still in the lake just offshore. As swallows darted overhead, Garrett fished. Surrounding him, the three llamas looked as if they might be offering advice.
She stood, stretched, then slowly, so as not to disturb the fascinating tableau, walked barefoot down to the water’s edge. She noticed trout already caught and strung on a line in the shallows, just waiting for the breakfast frying pan.
Percy was the first to notice her. He waded over and snuffled her pocket for a treat. “I have something better,” she whispered, stroking his neck. “A bowl of mash.”
“Good morning,” Garrett said quietly, turning to gift her with a smile.
Who knew anyone could look that gorgeous so early in the morning? Self-consciously, she swiped at the sleep-disheveled tendrils of hair that dangled near her face.
“I thought these guys might want off their tethers,” he said. “I have to admit they’re good company. Quieter than most people. A lot calmer than dogs.”
Aw, he’d fallen prey to llama charm.
Rolling up her khakis, she waded out in the chill water to stand next to him, to prolong the moment before feeding the boys. Percy followed. “Where’s Rory?”
“Asleep. You didn’t happen to bring any birthday candles, did you?”
“I sure did. And a cake. For lunch on the way down.”
“Could I use one of the candles?” he asked. “I want to stick it in Rory’s breakfast trout. It’s not every day a boy turns thirteen.”
At that moment she fell for the sheriff.
Growing up, she’d always had elaborate, catered birthday celebrations that made her want to hide in order to catch her breath. She would have loved to have one or both parents all to herself for the day. And she would have traded all the fancy cakes for a trout with a candle in it for breakfast.
“You’re a wonderful father,” she said softly.
“Thanks.” He seemed disconcerted by the compliment.
“I mean it. Rory’s the proof.”
He didn’t answer but played with his fishing line. The llamas were statue-still. More swallows swooped over the surface of the water, catching insects. The sky was a brilliant blue, but here in this hollow, protected by tall evergreens, the sun’s rays hadn’t yet penetrated. The lake, with wisps of mist rising from its surface, was shrouded in an early morning opalescence. Samantha had the feeling she’d been transported to a fairyland.
“Don’t move,” Garrett said, quietly breaking the silence. “You have a dragonfly on the top of your head.”
Despite his command, she bent to look
at her reflection in the water, and, there on the top of her head, like a fantastic barrette, sat the large lace-winged insect. It seemed so unreal she couldn’t help lifting her hand to feel it. Of course, it flew away. When she raised her head, Garrett was looking at her with a gaze so intense it made her shiver.
“Sometimes you just want to touch beauty,” he said before slipping his free hand behind her neck and pulling her into a deep kiss.
Not even raising her arms, she leaned against him and let herself float on the kiss. Let the heat of his mouth and the coldness from the lake water meet somewhere in the very center of her, creating a tumultuous eddy that made her deliciously dizzy.
Neither of them pulled away. It was as if they simply drifted apart. With half-closed eyes she stood looking at him looking at her. As if he wanted more. Much more. It had to be the magic of the place.
Percy chose that moment to put his head between them. He turned first to one and then the other as his big liquid-brown eyes seemed to say, “All this communing is fine, but what about that mash you promised me?”
Garrett chuckled. “First Ruggiero, now Percy. I’d like to see what might evolve if your chaperones weren’t so conscientious.”
Oh, she knew exactly what would evolve. But at this stage in her life, when she felt so emotionally tentative, she didn’t think it wise to leave matters of the heart to natural selection.
She stepped away from him. “I’m going to feed the llamas. Are you preparing breakfast?”
“Yes. The menu features trout, trout and more trout.”
“If you’re interested, there are precooked potatoes in the cooler, for home fries.”
“I’m interested.”
Gathering up the boys’ halter lines, she led them to shore, wondering if the sheriff’s interest was confined to breakfast ingredients.
Suddenly, Garrett felt powerfully hungry. He reeled in his line, then quickly cleaned the fish he’d already caught. When he’d first gotten up, he’d rebuilt the fire. Although the flames had now died down, the coals were hot and cooking-ready. The skillets Samantha had provided were—of course—state-of-the-art. He rummaged in the cooler for the potatoes, and only when trout and home fries were sizzling in their pans and coffee was perking, did he allow himself the opportunity to watch Samantha with the llamas.