The Bride Wore Blue

by Cindy Gerard

  Was he going to fly out of her life and leave her alone? Hell no. But since it seemed so important to her, he’d oblige her by making her think he was trying. The truth of the matter was, he wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet. Not any time soon. He was determined to get her to open up to him.

  Whether she liked it or not, he figured he’d stick around until then—or at least until he satisfied himself that she couldn’t possibly be all he remembered and everything he’d ever wanted a woman to be.

  Three

  “I think I’ve just about got it,” J.D. said confidently as he tinkered again with what he hoped Maggie regarded as a total mystery of machinery and mazes. If she knew anything—anything at all about engines—he had about as much of a chance of pulling this off as a rock had floating.

  Though still fairly silent, she’d really been a sport. When he’d suggested an extra pair of hands would come in handy to hold a wrench while he tightened a few screws and oiled a few gears, she’d drawn a wary but determined breath and followed him to the plane.

  It had been a cheap trick. But he wasn’t above pulling it. Not when the result placed him in such deliciously close proximity to the spring-fresh scent of her hair and the summer-warm heat of her body. And she looked so damn cute with that smudge of grease on her nose.

  He’d even gotten an exasperated grin out of her when he’d told her to put more pressure on the dowadidie so he could tighten the whatsitduger which in turn would make the thingamajigger work the way it was supposed to.

  “Technie talk,” he’d confided in a patronizing tone and a superior air that had finally won that smile.

  It had been worth the wait. Though tempered with a worthy suspicion that told him he was going to have to keep on his toes or she’d find him out, he loved the look of her when she smiled. A certain sweetness hovered around the edges of that smile. A childlike vulnerability that he knew she’d never confess to. The wonder of it made his heart clench. The reason for it remained a mystery and the source of a dark and brooding concern.

  “Okay,” he said with staged hope as he retightened a screw he’d just loosened. “Let’s see if that did the trick.”

  Wiping his hands on a rag, he closed the engine cowling with determined finality. “Kiss for luck?” he suggested with raised brows and a hopeful grin as he ripped off a fresh strip of duct tape and slapped it across the broken cowling latch to hold it closed.

  She rolled her eyes, which made him laugh. Which made her scowl as she stepped back. He chose to interpret her scowl as reluctance at his imminent departure and was still grinning when he climbed into the cockpit.

  “Come on sweetheart,” he murmured, making a great show of coaxing and cajoling the engine. “Make daddy proud. I’ve got great expectations.”

  After a series of misfires and a bevy of sputters and chuck-a-chucks, the engine finally sparked, fired and hummed to life.

  J.D. flashed Maggie a victorious smile, then throttled back to idling speed. Lord, he loved the look of her. She was trying to look relieved when, in fact, he figured she was fighting disappointment, which implied that she didn’t want him to leave. Which, as far as he was concerned, more than justified the creative license he’d taken with his repairs.

  With his grin still firmly in place, he crawled back out of the cockpit.

  “We did it, Stretch,” he yelled above the engine noise, then sidestepped Hershey when the lab made a flying leap for the shotgun seat.

  They shared a soft smile at the dog’s eagerness.

  “Don’t suppose you’d want to sign on as my ace mechanic?” He rose his brows hopefully.

  “I think I’ll leave that to you.”

  “What?” He moved closer, even though he’d heard every word. “I can’t hear you. The noise,” he yelled, angling a thumb back toward the plane as he lowered his head until his ear was a whisper away from her mouth.

  “I said, I think I’ll leave that to you!” she shouted.

  “Aw, Stretch.” He cupped her shoulders in his hands and gave her his most soulful look. “I don’t want to leave you either!”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No. That’s not what I said!”

  “You’d feel bad if I was dead?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t believe this.”

  “A kiss? Jeez, Stretch. I thought you’d never ask.”

  She hadn’t any more than opened her mouth to adamantly correct him when he lowered his head to hers.

  There was something to be said for surprise attacks. Something to be said for a shocked, pliant woman and the sneak-up-on-you chill of a slow, creeping sunset that drew heat to heat, heartbeat to heartbeat.

  J.D. folded her into his arms without restraint and savored the sweetness of her mouth, the softness of her body, the wonderful fit of her five-foot-ten stature to his mere four-inch advantage.

  The lady thought this was goodbye. And once she figured out that this wasn’t where the scene was going, she kissed like it was goodbye.

  The wary tension seeped out of her limbs like frost melting on sun-warmed windowpanes. The reluctance to participate relaxed to a lazy acquiescence to the wonder of the moment and the richness of shared passions.

  She molded her long length against his, held on like he was her anchor in a swirling sea of sensation and rode with him to the rise and fall of each deep, seductive swell.

  It felt good. It felt like heaven. And ending it was one of the hardest things J.D. had ever done.

  He pulled away slowly. His heart hammering. His emotions beating out a tune he was neither familiar with nor certain of. She felt it too. He could see it in her eyes. Sense it with each thready breath she drew. And as they stood there, the dusk fast descending and the urgency for his departure eminent, he saw a shadow of regret cloud her dark eyes.

  A scene from an old war movie flicked across his mind’s eye. He wasn’t sure which movie. It didn’t really matter. There was always a dramatic parting scene between the brave RAF pilot and his poignantly crying lover, a heroine of the French Resistance. The reluctant but resigned destiny of his call to duty darkened the hero’s eyes; the silent but futile plea to stay glistened in hers.

  “I gotta go, Stretch,” he whispered as sappy sentiments blended sweetly with their own parting and he hoped for an invitation to stay.

  No such luck. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts in that way he was beginning to recognize as an attempt to both create distance and provide self-protection.

  He let out a deflated breath when she gave him a stiff nod, distancing herself even further. Guess he could rule out romance—but not a change of plans.

  A lesser man would have counted on luck to stay his departure. He wasn’t a lesser man.

  When he’d pulled the fuel line earlier—with a fervent prayer she hadn’t noticed or wouldn’t realize what he’d done if she had—there had only been enough gas in the engine to run for a few minutes.

  Though he was still stunned from the impact of their kiss and a little slow on the uptake, when the engine died on cue, he finally remembered to look shocked. He might have even managed to look a little disappointed.

  What he felt was guilt. Okay, so only a little guilt, especially in light of the rewards he might reap because of his duplicity.

  His slight hesitation cost him points, though. He caught a glimmer of suspicion in her eyes at the moment before he turned to the plane, gave the obligatory disgusted sigh and hung his hands dejectedly on his hips.

  “Damn,” he muttered, hoping he sounded convincing.

  “Yeah,” she echoed without an ounce of inflection in her voice. She narrowed her dark eyes and glared at him. “Damn.”

  Maggie smelled a rat the size of a whale—or in this case, the size of a very large, very blond Minnesotan.

  She stared from his broad back to the plane.

  “Problem?” she asked dryly.

  “Could be,” he said with a thoughtful frown. “Let me try her again.”

  But of course, w
hen he climbed back into the pilot’s seat, made all the appropriate adjustments and schooled his face into the picture of determination, the engine lay as quiet as the descent of the sun.

  Something about the too, too dejected look on his face had her gritting her teeth.

  Damn the man. Damn the man and his reckless grin and his sneak attacks and his potent kisses. And his stupid, worthless plane!

  “Now what?” She didn’t even try to hide her disgust.

  “Well,” he began, checking the dwindling daylight, “it’s a cinch I can’t get her running before dark. And even if I could, while I don’t mind flying at night, I don’t much like the idea of landing in the dark without ground or water lights. And I like the look of that cloud bank moving in even less.”

  For the first time, Maggie noticed the darkening sky wasn’t due only to the approaching sunset. A big thunderhead had moved in, black and threatening with the promise of rain and the potential of wind.

  “So where’s base?” she asked on a resigned sigh.

  “Crane Cove.”

  One of the things Maggie had done when she’d moved into the cabin was acquaint herself fully with the lay of the lake. Crane Cove was less than an hour away by air. By land, however, they were looking at a four-hour trip. She didn’t much care for the possibility of being cloistered in her Jeep with this man—no matter how charming—for that long. It would give him more than enough time to chip away at her resolve and make her want to confide in him.

  “Can you radio someone to come pick you up?” she suggested, searching for an alternative.

  “Radio?”

  She gave him a baleful look. “Don’t tell me you don’t have a radio in the plane.”

  “Yeah, well, sure. I’ve got a radio. But—”

  “No,” she cut in with a quelling scowl. “Let me guess. It doesn’t work.”

  Again came that exasperating and irritatingly infectious grin. “Got it in one, Stretch. Looks like you’re stuck with Hershey and me for the night.”

  She glared at him.

  He had the nerve to laugh.

  “I’ll drive you back,” she said with a single-minded determination to get rid of him.

  “Oh, no you won’t. I won’t put you out that way. Besides, there’s a stretch of road about ten miles long that’s torn up. You’d need a Sherman tank to get through that mess. Especially if it rains,” he added with a meaningful nod toward the sky.

  She let out a deep, defeated breath.

  “Hey,” he said, cutting through thoughts that included murder and mayhem. “It’s no sweat, okay? This is northern Minnesota. And you’re looking at an outdoorsman. I’m always prepared for impromptu camp-outs. My tent is stowed in the Cessna. Hershey and I can pitch it in your front yard. We’ll sleep under the clouds, stay warm by the camp fire and howl at the moon for entertainment. It’ll be fine. It’ll be great. You’ll see. You’ll forget we’re even here.”

  Forget he was here? There was about as much chance of that as there was forgetting the way she’d reacted when he’d given her what she’d thought was a goodbye kiss. Something had happened to her in that moment. Something powerful and frightening and totally beyond her control.

  She’d been swamped with an undeniable regret that he was actually going to leave her. As impossible as it seemed, she hadn’t wanted him to go. And as he’d bent his head to hers, his intent as clear as the blue of his eyes, she’d told him as much, not with words, but with her body.

  She’d molded herself against him, clung to him like scented lotion to sun-parched skin, melted like candle wax set to flame. And he’d answered her unspoken request to stay with a sweet seduction that had taken and indulged and promised a pleasure even greater if she’d just say the word.

  She swallowed hard. Forget he was here? Not in this lifetime. That didn’t mean he had to know it.

  “Fine,” she said crisply. “Camp on the lawn.” Then, turning on legs bent on wobbling, she walked up to the cabin, determined to at least make him think she was capable of forgetting about him.

  * * *

  “Well, Hersh,” J.D. groused as he settled into his sleeping bag and the lab curled up beside him, “looks like the lady took me literally. I think she did forget about us.”

  Maybe he shouldn’t have been so enthusiastic when he’d assured her he’d be fine out in the elements. He hadn’t thought at the time that he’d been all that convincing.

  “Goes to show how much I know, huh, boy? Because I also figured she’d invite us in.”

  He cast a scowling glance toward the dark cabin. She’d walked away a little over three hours ago and he hadn’t seen her since.

  At the very least, he’d expected an offer to sleep on her couch. Hell, he’d have settled for the floor. Anything would have been softer than this rock his tent was pitched on.

  He hit the button illuminating the dial on his watch Only half an hour until midnight. It was going to be a long wait until morning. He’d built his fire for warmth but foregone cooking for the slices of summer sausage, cheese and crackers he’d packed in the little cooler he always carried in the plane. Hershey had been content with his dog chow and a couple of crackers. After a little recreational game of hide-and-seek with another chipmunk, the lab had settled in beside him.

  “She’s going to be a tougher nut to crack than I’d originally thought,” J.D. reflected aloud as he turned on his back, made a final check of the black clouds rolling across the night sky and hoped for a tender heart in the event of rain. In absence of an invitation, he prayed that the hastily applied patches of duct tape he’d slapped across the new tears in his old tent would hold. He hated getting wet. Truth to tell, he hated camping out—though he’d never admit it aloud. Not to his friends, at any rate. They’d laugh him out of the state—especially if they found out that his idea of roughing it included a microwave and a CD player.

  While he loved the north country, he loved it between sunrise and dusk, when the air was sweet and crisp and the sun was warm and mellow. By night, even in the summer, the lake land could be cold and sometimes dangerous. Shadows bled into shapes—many of them wild black bears, scavengers of the night, propelled to roam by boundless appetites that made them easy prey to the poachers currently plaguing the area.

  Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about them again. Tonight he had to worry about staying warm. And dry. When the sun had disappeared for the day, the warm breeze had shifted to a stout northwesterly, carrying a hint of an arctic chill. For a while the moon and the mosquitoes had been the only friendly company in the dark.

  “I could do without the mosquitoes, but I wouldn’t have minded a little more moonlight,” he grumbled. The cloud bank had completely darkened the sky. “Wouldn’t have minded a soft bed, either,” he added grumpily as he tugged the sleeping bag higher over his shoulder and grudgingly accepted that it was going to be a long, cold night.

  That was when he felt the first raindrop fall. A big splattering drop bulleted its way in through the trailing flaps of the pup tent, which were suddenly snapping like sheets in the wind.

  He poked his head outside.

  “Holy hurricane, Hersh!” He swore above the sudden and aggressive slap of the wind and rain pelting him full in the face. “Looks like we’re in for a dam buster.”

  Hershey, ever the loyal companion, took one peek outside the tent, gave J.D. an every-dog-for-himself look and broke for the cabin. He was whining and scratching on the door—something J.D. was about ready to do himself— when he heard a screech of metal scraping against wood.

  He snapped his attention toward the dock. With the rising wind came rising waves. The smoothly rolling surface of the bay had transformed in a heartbeat into a boiling cauldron of black water and crashing surf. And the Cessna, tied as she was to the end of the dock, was taking a hell of a beating against the cedar pilings that were anchored with re-rod stakes and rock.

  J.D. didn’t stop to think. He just reacted. He had to get her out of there o
r his beloved plane would end up a twisted, scattered mass of mangled metal and shattered glass.

  Quickly slipping into his shoes, he made a mad dash for the end of the dock. In the next instant, he was on his knees, tugging at the ropes securing the plane, struggling with rain-soaked nylon and swearing into the wind when the knots wouldn’t give.

  By the time the first knot grudgingly slipped free, he was soaked to the skin. The icy wind and the force of the rain stung like tiny, piercing needles against his face. Ignoring the pain and cold, he scrambled to the front float. With concentrated effort and fingers rapidly stiffening and growing clumsy due to the cold, he freed the other rope.

  Then and only then, did he allow himself enough time to make a decision. The Cessna was like a crippled bird with her fuel line pulled. He cursed himself for his “brilliant” maneuvering that made it impossible for him to crank her up and drive her to the safety of a sheltered harbor. If he simply let the plane go and the wind took her, she wouldn’t stand much more of a chance of surviving intact than if he’d left her tied to the dock.

  That left only one alternative. A brilliant flash of lightning lit up the night like a strobe, lighting the way to the beach thirty yards away. If he could tow the Cessna around the rocks to the beach, she could weather out the storm there without taking a battering. He could beach her on the sand and she’d sit as tight as a hen mallard on a nest, free from harm.

  Thirty yards. Through a curtain of wind whipped rain, he gauged the angry breakers and the jutting ridge of massive boulders and jagged rock that lay between the dock and the beach. It might as well be thirty miles. On a deep breath, he considered the distance around the rock pile and the water’s fifteen-foot depth, and the power of both to crush him.

  Thirty yards of black, angry water and the very real probability that even if he survived the rock pile, he’d get sucked under and never come back up.