Bedded by the Bear: A Shifters in Love Fun & Flirty Romance (Mystic Bay Book 6)

by Isadora Montrose

  But she would still much rather have taken a gentle ferry ride than made the trip to West Haven in Mitchell’s new speedboat. He wasn’t being reckless, but he was certainly enjoying testing the limits of his new toy. And her stomach. She tried to breathe deeply while keeping her teeth clenched against seasickness. No easy trick.

  After what seemed like hours, Mitchell throttled back the motor and the bouncing diminished. The channel was clearly marked on either side by orange buoys. Signs mandated wakeless travel. Thank goodness. She could feel her stomach settle slightly as the boat stopped pitching.

  Mitchell turned from the wheel to grin at her. “Not long now.”

  She couldn’t even smile. But that was good news.

  The town of Mystic Bay was drowsing under a pale blue sky. Picturesque Victorian rooflines came into view first, and then the harbor. Mystic Bay appeared to be a tiny village set among the green trees of the island of West Haven, which was itself not very large. Just another minute island in the fabled San Juans.

  Mitchell bypassed the resort town and kept their boat chugging along the rocky coastline. The gentle slope that led down to the Mystic Bay harbor gave way to rugged cliffs with jumbles of fallen rock at their bases.

  The thick forest seemed to be mainly composed of evergreens of a deep and attractive green. Occasionally she could see a bright maple or a brown oak peeking out from the greenery. Even less often she spotted a roof. It certainly was an isolated location.

  One or two huge Victorian cottages had been built where they were on view. The solid wooden houses with their turrets and gingerbread balconies were more mansion than cottage, but they were reassuring. She had a sense that the Bear Outlook place wasn’t that big, but presumably it had been built on the same lines.

  And still they kept following the coastline. Finally Mitchell guided their motor boat into a deep fjord. High cliffs towered on either side. The damp air became thick and misty. She craned her neck to look up those bare rock faces.

  Fog obscured whatever might be at the top. A narrow wooden dock appeared suddenly, perched on the rocks at the base of the cliffs. A squat weathered boathouse sat adjacent to it like a toad. A wooden staircase snaked up the side of the rock wall from the boathouse and dock and disappeared into the mist.

  Zoë was startled when Mitchell cut the engine and pulled alongside. He turned to grin at her. “We’re here.”

  “Where’s here?” she asked. “Where’s the cottage?”

  “At the top of the stairs.”

  “Good golly.” She gazed in horror at the spooky mist hiding the top of the well-weathered staircase.

  “First things first,” Mitchell said as he took her hand to help her off the launch.

  Absolutely. She had needed to pee for hours.

  He handed her his duffel and her bag. “We don’t want to make more trips than we have to.”

  Zoë stared in growing horror at the laden launch. Before they picked up the Zephyr, Mitchell had arranged for coolers of groceries to be loaded in Portland. There were also several heavy cardboard cartons. She looked back at the endless zigzagging stairs.

  “Are you telling me, we have to hump all that stuff up a staircase that looks like it was built by Lucky himself?”

  Mitchell looked dumbfounded. Or dumb. Take your pick. He nodded. “The cabin is built right on the bluff.”

  She craned her neck again. The top of the staircase was still hidden by the mist. “Why is there fog at the top, rather than the bottom?”

  “It’s a long way up. From down here we’re looking through a lot of it.” He sounded delighted. His pleased expression faded as he took in hers. “Want me to go first?”

  “If. You. Don’t. Mind.” What the heck was this place?

  Mitchell grabbed two of the heavy ice-and-grocery-laden coolers and took the stairs two at a time. She followed more slowly, hanging onto the railing. Neither steps nor banisters were as decrepit as she had first assumed. And here and there new boards stood out bright yellow against the old gray ones. But the steps wound back and forth in a dizzying fashion.

  Why on earth would anyone build a summer home at the top of a cliff? Where all supplies had to be carried up these steep and forbidding stairs? Who was that crazy?

  Mitch was waiting for her at the top of the stairs looking as pleased as if he had hung the moon by hand just for her. A tiny log cabin wreathed in mist stood in what must have been a clearing several decades ago.

  They had to maneuver between the small saplings and dead weeds that dotted the area in front of the cabin porch. The mossy roof and ancient logs completed the eerie picture. Even though it was warmer up here than it had been on the launch, Zoë shivered involuntarily.

  “Aunt Ursula always acted like Bear Outlook was next door to paradise,” she murmured. Wearily, she set down their bags on the porch and collapsed into one of two antique wooden rockers, half expecting its sunken rush seat to collapse beneath her.

  Mitchell juggled his burden and reached for the doorknob. “Yeah,” he said happily.

  “Whose idea was it to build a cabin up here?” she asked tartly.

  “This place was built by old Lucky himself,” he told her proudly.

  She buried her face in her hands. “We’re both descended from a total jackass,” she told her palms. “Our kids are doomed.”

  “Great air,” he offered.

  She glared at him. Great air? Misty and cold air was great? A decrepit cabin at the top of a windswept cliff was great?

  “It’s defensible,” he added. Like that was an amenity. “Let’s go inside. You’ll feel better with some lunch in you.”

  She followed him into the cabin. “I can’t find a light switch,” she said into the gloom.

  Mitchell cleared his throat. “There aren’t any. No electricity. But we brought LED lanterns with us. And there are supposed to be some in the cupboards. And we have a propane fridge.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mitchell~

  Maybe he should have explained before they got here that they would be roughing it until they could winterize the cabin? Zoë did not seem taken with it. The look on her face could only be called panicky. But the location certainly made up for the lack of comforts.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” she demanded tightly. Her voice rose. “Please tell me there’s one.”

  “Sure.” Aunt Ursula had assured him there was. And an outhouse for emergencies.

  “Where is it?”

  “In the lean-to. We just need to prime the pump before you can use it.”

  “In the lean-to? Prime. The. Pump?” Zoë’s face turned white.

  “There’s no electricity and only well water,” he explained. He cleared his throat. “Water’s famous. But we have to pump it by hand. And pumps need to have water poured in before you work the handle.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I’ll get right on that. But if you’re desperate, supposedly there’s an outhouse.”

  “I’m going to sit right here, until you get the pump primed.” She plunked herself down at the kitchen table. The only table.

  He had intended to fetch the rest of their supplies and make sure the boat was battened down against the possibility of a storm. But he decided to get the bathroom operational first.

  The lean-to was a tight fit for him. Just a shed attached to the side of the house, with a sloping roof that barely accommodated him. However, it held a proper commode, a wash basin, and a claw-footed tub with a wide showerhead. And its own pump.

  He’d coped with far worse. He just didn’t think Zoë had. Or wanted to. The cabin might be a bit more rustic than she was used to. He was going to have to make some changes to keep her happy. Shouldn’t be hard.

  He understood why his forebears had built the simplest of structures and scarcely updated it in the last hundred plus years. The location wasn’t suited to anything grander. The difficulty of getting materials to the top of the cliff was undoubtedly why the cabin had never been winterized or
modernized.

  On the other hand, Aunt Ursula had been correct. This place was exactly what his bear needed. There was something wholesome about the atmosphere of Bear Outlook. Although wholesome wasn’t exactly the right word.

  Wholesome was a bit wishy-washy for the sense of well-being that breathing this rich air gave him. It didn’t begin to describe the buzz he had felt as soon as he stepped ashore. This property might have been made for bears.

  That cliff, however, was a major obstacle. The staircase was both steep and narrow. Pale new boards indicated that it had been repaired this season. The lack of movement when he ran up it indicated it was sturdy and securely bolted to the rock. For sure they could tote building materials up it.

  He used the pitcher of water beside the pump to prime it and then pumped until he had a good gush of water from the sink tap. He did a quick scan for bugs. No cobwebs. And no window. Pale daylight filtered through the cracks in the wooden walls. He’d need to caulk those. He left his lantern for Zoë.

  “I’m going to get the rest of the stuff,” he called through the warped bathroom door.

  Her response was muffled. Probably better so.

  As he was empty-handed, he rattled the railings on the trip down to the boat. They didn’t budge. Someone had done a good job of keeping them in good repair. Aunt Ursula spoke highly of her caretakers. Apparently her confidence in the Mulcasters was well placed.

  He stacked the rest of their supplies on the dock and turned his attention to the launch. Job one was to make sure it was sheltered so it wouldn’t get damaged if a storm blew up.

  The boat house door wasn’t bolted. Eventually, he would need to inspect the structure itself, although it seemed to be in fairly good shape. Newer than the cabin and probably good for a couple more decades.

  The boats slung in the overhead cradles were smaller than the launch he had bought. There was a small open motor boat and an even smaller sailboat. They would probably find the little power boat useful. He should tie it up in the water when he had a moment.

  It would be better to have two boats ready to go. Just in case. They weren’t going to need the sailboat however, not this season. He enjoyed sailing. Even winter sailing, but he had a strong hunch Zoë didn’t. And no one had had to draw him a chart either.

  But what he – they – principally needed was a generator. And a couple of rolls of electrical cable. Because he had to wire the cabin. Zoë needed electric lights. A pump that engaged automatically. Someplace to charge their electronics. Even in a summer cottage those were modern necessities. But it all came back to the generator and getting it up those stairs. Heavy things, generators.

  Could he carry one up these winding stairs singlehandedly? Probably not. Could be that an elevator was what they needed. But unless they found elves to turn the crank, an elevator would require electricity. Which was your basic catch twenty-two. Snafu 101. No matter. Snafus felt normal. He’d find a work-around.

  Never let it be said that a Marine didn’t rise to a challenge.

  He maneuvered the Zephyr into the boathouse and secured the doors. Then he stacked a couple of the boxes on top of the last cooler and carried them up the stairs.

  It was awkward, because of the narrowness and the sharp turns. And a generator would be heavier and bigger, hence even more awkward to haul.

  But he would just have to make it work.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Zoë~

  The cabin was small, dank and dark. And it smelled of mildew. What had possessed Aunt Ursula to suggest it as a honeymoon spot? She was trying to be a good sport, but failing miserably. All she felt was tired and cranky and this drafty bathroom was rubbing her last nerve raw.

  A metal contraption loomed in one dark corner like some rusty beast. The pump. There was a single tap to serve the small sink. She reached over and turned it. A torrent of clean water emerged. Clean, icy water. The commode had been new before she was born. Probably before her parents were born. The tank was perched on the highest wall and a long chain descended from it.

  At least it was clean. And there did not seem to be any spiders. The lantern cast shadows in the corners of the lean-to and cracks in the clapboard let in raw drafts. She peed and washed her hands in water so cold it made her fingers tingle.

  The old-fashioned, claw-footed bathtub had a large showerhead. But only the cold tap worked. For heaven’s sake. No hot water. No lights. Damp and musty quarters. Was Mitchell out of his ever-loving head?

  The first bedroom was an improvement. Cozy. But the cast iron bedstead was only a double. She however wasn’t the one who was six-three. Someone had made the bed up with clean sheets and a patchwork quilt. She liked the faded quilt and the family photographs hanging on the log walls.

  She did a quick survey, recognizing Aunt Ursula in her youth. Her aunt’s arms were linked with those of a couple of boys a few years older than her. Probably the brothers – Zoë’s uncles – who hadn’t come back from WWII.

  The single window looked straight out into trees. They were small and thin, like the ones at the front of the cabin, but they blocked most of the light, and all of the ocean. A sagging clothesline wavered among the trees.

  Zoë didn’t object to trees, she objected to them blocking the light. The trees had been allowed to grow so close to the windows that there was no view.

  While she was freshening up, Mitchell had brought their bags into the bedroom. She unpacked her things into the chest of drawers. Although it was battered and shabby, and the top was covered with white rings, it was sturdy and recently dusted.

  Her stuff took up only one drawer, leaving room for Mitchell’s clothes. Did she unpack for him? Mom would have unpacked for Dad, but it seemed like a weird thing for her to do. She left his duffel alone. She investigated the other bedroom. It was even smaller, and just as shabbily furnished. And just as clean. It too was murky even with a lantern in her hand.

  Depressing just about summed it up. Why anyone would want to live like a pioneer mystified her. And Mitchell had said they needed to stay here for a full month. The thought of dank, dark, musty quarters for thirty days was nauseating.

  In the kitchen, Mitchell began to whistle cheerfully. The front door opened and banged. She listened. His footsteps echoed as loudly and rapidly as if he were part mountain goat. Happy mountain goat. Clearly this primitive, old-fashioned cabin made him happy. Really, really happy. Crap.

  Marriage was about compromise. But at the moment she didn’t feel like compromising.

  The living area hadn’t improved while she was looking at the bedrooms. One corner held a four-seater couch and a couple of chairs. A low coffee table that looked homemade. Everything was old but sturdy and, unlike the bed, bear-sized.

  The fireplace in front of the couch had been laid, but not lit. Since the cabin was chilly as well as damp, a fire would be nice. She went to look for matches.

  She passed the table which occupied one corner beside the kitchen area. The fridge was humming. Mitchell had said it was propane, as the stove seemed to be. The deep white sink had a draining board attached to it. And another pump. The wall above it had a small old-fashioned gas water heater. Which either didn’t work, or wasn’t yet lit. Another reason to look for matches.

  There was some food in the cupboards although Mitchell hadn’t unpacked their stuff. The fridge held milk and eggs and a loaf of bread. All cold, so the fridge had been on for several hours.

  The back door opened into a shed with neatly stacked logs and a big garbage pail. No matches. There were more flashlights under the counter. No matches. Maybe they were on the mantle? If they were, she couldn’t find them. Just more photos of long-dead Reynoldses.

  She was tired, more than a little queasy, and hungry. And she needed to pee again. Afterward, she wandered grumpily into the bedroom and tried out the mattress. She would just close her eyes until Mitchell came back.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mitchell~

  As Aunt Ursula had promised, th
e caretakers had stocked the fridge with staples. He unpacked the coolers and cartons before realizing that Zoë had disappeared. He found her in the bedroom fast asleep. Goldilocks couldn’t have looked better in his bed.

  The color that the boat trip had leeched from her face was back. He hadn’t expected a woman who had grown up around boats to suffer from seasickness. Nor had he expected a bear to turn her nose up at the cabin.

  He hoped that wasn’t going to be a problem. Sure there were a few deficiencies. But nothing that couldn’t be put right with a little effort.

  He didn’t need warming. Not after several trips up and down that staircase. But in fact, while the air outdoors was refreshing and stimulating, inside it had a faintly moldy tang. A fire would take some of the damp out of the air.

  Someone had laid a fire with pine logs and crumpled newspapers. He looked around for matches and found the canning jar keeping them dry behind the basket of pine cones. He tossed a few of those on top and lit it. The fire caught with one match.

  Now what? He needed to feed Zoë. It was way past lunchtime and she had barely nibbled her breakfast. She would be less cranky if she ate. He had assembled a rough spaghetti sauce when she reappeared. Her tousled hair and sleepy eyes made him think bedroom thoughts, but he could be strong.

  “Hey,” he said. “Lunch should be ready in about twenty minutes. The caretakers left us a salad.”

  “I saw.” She sat down at the table and curled her bare toes under her chair. It pleased some deeply primitive part of himself that she was bear-footed and pregnant. Probably a sign that he needed his consciousness raised or expanded or something.

  He pumped her a glass of water and placed it in front of her. Wait until she tasted that. She sipped and sipped again.

  “Good, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She examined her glass. “But it’s just water.”

  “Aunt Ursula claims our well is charmed.”