Finally A Bride: A Valentine's Day Romance

by Colleen Charles

  She gives a little shiver, then shifts her attention from my gaze, looking all over for the sign of a den or something where the kits might be. “Where are they?”

  “Right here.” Stuffing two bottles under my sweater, I bend under the shadowed branches of a spruce and then go flat belly in the snow.

  She crouches down too.

  “You can’t see them from that far away,” I say, welcoming her warmth. “You have to come closer.”

  Snow showers her head when she elbow crawls to my side. The nest isn’t exactly a cave, more like a long, low ledge of rock that tunneled in several yards, the opening concealed entirely by the spruce and stark winter black brush. Once inside, the darkness is as sudden as night. My pupils have to dilate to see anything after the blinding glare of the snow. But I can see the tiny eyes, and then another pair and another. The fur balls are nestled in a heap, with tiny shiny noses and tiny floppy ears, and gorgeous pelts of light grey.

  The tiniest one lets out a lonely, angry bark, echoing an adult fox, except that his volume is more like a rodent being chased by a cat. He thinks he’s real tough for a two-pound bit of fluff. I plug his mouth with the strange-tipped bottle, and he instantly quiets down. I sneeze again, worrying I might catch a cold on this crazy venture with this alluring woman – but I want to show her what I do.

  Who I am.

  And I’m not really sure why.

  But I want to share a part of myself with her. The part that matters most.

  “Aw,” she says in a voice barely above a whisper. “They are the cutest things ever. You were right, Knight.”

  Chapter Four

  Angelica

  “Dammit!”

  As soon as I kill the car lights, I drop the keys on the floor mat. Bending over, I grope around until I find them, then collect my mittens, purse, and Instant Pot. Holding all of them, I have no way to open the door, so I rejuggle. Eventually, I escape the vehicle, holding the heavy pot with both hands and give the vehicle’s door a swift kick with my foot to close it.

  This is a lot of trouble to go through just to bring a man some homemade beef stroganoff. But I owe him. Big. And I plan to deliver so I can get rid of the guilt that still plagues me. He saved me from the bears. The three bears. Just call me Goldilocks and shut the damn book. And probably saved me from myself, if truth be told. Not to mention Jess at the coffee shop, that douche nozzle. And so I came up with this as a way to express my gratitude. The way to a man’s heart and all that.

  The offer to bring him supper was impulsive and yet he pounced on it. No waving my offer to the side. No protesting. Nothing. Almost like he wanted to see me. Like he wanted me in his house bearing food and regret. His fast agreement worries me a bit. Men have a habit of reading into a woman’s offers of kindness.

  But I’m not trying to get to his heart.

  Or even his pants.

  Am I?

  Nah, I’m just feeling beholden and guilty and that’s all. Nothing more.

  My arms ache from the weight of the Instant Pot as I glance around. He’s home because I can see his four-wheel drive parked behind a trailer. Yellow light shines from the windows, making lonely patches of color in the snow. Even this early in the evening in Minnesota it’s already pitch black in winter. He decided to set his temporary home in the middle of nowhere, isolated in a nest of black trees and sooty shadows. An icy, eerie wind shivers through the treetops, making me hiss in an uneasy breath.

  If I were back home in southern Iowa, it would be warmer. Not angry cold like it is up here almost at the Canadian border. But I’m not staying out here. No way. I’m just going to hand him the Instant Pot and he can bring it back to me once he’s done enjoying his carb extravaganza courtesy of me. He can throw away the extra or put it in the freezer, I couldn’t care less.

  I couldn’t care less about him. I’ve sworn off men. I have.

  Dammit, Angelica. You can’t do that. That would be rude with a capital R.

  Despite my head screaming at me to flee, my mom raised me better than that. Twice the man saved my butt from being in a really bad situation. I could have been hurt either time, or worse. Manners require an appropriate and heartfelt thank you. The only danger I’m risking now is frostbitten cheeks from standing outside worrying about what he’s going to think of me being here at night.

  Alone.

  With him.

  I take a breath, march to his doorstep and use my elbow to knock. The knock only creates a muffled sound, but the door promptly flies open. Warmth floods out, kissing my cheeks and halting the words that dance on my tongue. I only have one quick glimpse of my giant savior, whose shoulders are not meant to fit in the metal doorway of a rental trailer.

  “Damn, Angelica, I was getting worried about you. Thought you got lost out there on the utility road and I was going to have to go out in the cold to fish you out of another snowbank.”

  Despite my wariness being here alone with him, I catch a flash of an easy smile – very non-threatening – and I exhale a little bit of my fear. I smile back. “Nope. You gave me great directions. No issues getting here. And the road was surprisingly easy to navigate due to the snowpack.”

  He reaches down the steps to take the heavy pot from my hands. “This smells great. Come on in.”

  I shake my head. “Nah, I should get going.”

  I swear disappointment flashes in his eyes before he masks it. “You have to work at the coffee shop?”

  Glancing around, I shake my head. “Not tonight. I only work four nights a week. But I only meant to bring you supper. I don’t want to intrude on your privacy.”

  “You’re going to make me eat alone? When you’re already here? And I haven’t had anyone to talk to today but wild animals? That’s harsh.”

  His mournful tone makes me roll my eyes. But he’s right about lack of interesting adult conversation. I don’t get much of that anymore myself. Gingerly, I step inside. “Okay, I can stay for a bit.”

  He doesn’t seem to hear me, or doesn’t care, and he hasn’t let go of the pot. He inhales and moans. “I haven’t had a homemade meal in ages. Is it okay if I admit my undying love for you and pasta?”

  I chuckle at his dramatics. But they put me at ease anyway. “It’s just beef stroganoff.”

  “That’s my favorite. You don’t understand, Angelica. I’ve been opening cans or eating at Cool Beans for weeks now. The muffins are starting to do a number on my waistline.” Once he sets the pot down, he helps me out of my coat and hangs it on an oak rack next to the door. His gaze sweeps over my sweatshirt and boyfriend jeans. I picked this outfit deliberately, not wanting to give this man the wrong idea about my being here bearing food. This bulky and oversized outfit hides my curves but is also perfect for the chilly weather.

  But the ensemble doesn’t stop that masculine gleam from lighting his eyes. Men. They’re all the same and I’d do well to remember it, despite my softening feelings toward this particular one.

  “Good thing you’re tiny,” he says, gesturing toward his trailer. “There’s not much room in here for more than one person.”

  “Tiny?” I say, widening my eyes. “That’s something I don’t get called a lot.”

  He flicks his wrist. “Why? Aren’t you all of about five-foot-two?”

  My stomach flips over. “I’m as wide as I am tall, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  He regards me as if he wants to scold me, but then he says, “Compared to me, you’re tiny.”

  At his comment, I feel the conflict in my shoulders easing. He’s kind and just plain nice to be around. It’s past time for me to abolish the electric nerves ripping through me. I never used to be so paranoid, not until I got burned by every man in my damn life. And it’s ludicrous to think he wants me for anything more than a free meal and a conversation.

  Why would he? He’s hot and charming and successful.

  And lonely. So keep that in mind, Angelica, because that’s the only reason a man like this would want you. Becaus
e he has no other choices.

  “Your place isn’t that small. In fact, it’s a lot bigger than it looks on the outside,” I say as I glance around.

  “Sit down and make yourself at home. You can have the comfy chair. Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Beer?”

  “No, I’m good, but thanks.” I scope out the only chair, a lived-in recliner in black leather. The small living area overlooks the kitchenette. The bar style table is ivory and the carpeting thin and industrial. A short hallway of closets leads to a shadowed bedroom and I see the tucked end of a comforter in the wedge of light.

  The trailer isn’t big enough for a party, but there’s ample room for him to move around. It’s hard for two to maneuver though. I slip off my boots and drop in the chair when I see I’m going to be in his way if I remain standing. He opens and closes cupboards, taking out plates and silverware. The TV is on, tuned to a news station, but without the sound on.

  “I have a place in Wisconsin. A little cabin on a lake. That’s where I grew up, in the cheesehead state, but I’ve had this trailer for years. Sometimes I’m gone months out of the year with my work, and I’d go nuts trying to live in motels. This way, I can have my own stuff with me.”

  I cross my legs at the ankles. “Do you go wherever the bears are the thickest?”

  He shakes his head. “Not always bears. But I love them the most, and I seem to have ended up specializing in them whether I wanted to or not. I worked for the DNR for a while, then hooked up with the conservationist society. It doesn’t really matter who’s signing my paychecks, I end up doing the same thing. There just aren’t a lot of ecologists who get excited about dealing with a wounded bear. Since nobody else wants the job, it’s up to me to protect them and make sure they don’t become extinct because of hunting and poaching.”

  “So the bear whisperer gets the call?”

  “You must have heard my nickname around town.” He scoops out two plates of stroganoff and sets them on the counter. “Actually, I’ve been called worse throughout my life. Come on over. You’re going to have some, aren’t you? It smells delicious.”

  He rubs his hands together and inhales. I’m not really hungry, and for sure I never planned on staying, or sharing a meal with this confusing man. I don’t really like the way I feel at times when I’m with him.

  Off kilter.

  But I eat anyway, and I scarf down a plate of stroganoff right along with him. An hour passes before I even notice we’re still chatting, mostly about bears. I’m not sure if it’s the animals I’m fascinated by or his passion for them. Either way, I’m learning some interesting things that I didn’t know. Bear fun facts. And every time I ask an intelligent question the corners of his mouth turn upward.

  It’s like I’m passing some masculine wild animal knowledge test I don’t even know I’m taking.

  But maybe I’m testing him a bit as well, becoming more enthralled with this stranger I’m coming to learn more about. His work sounds exotic and dangerous and…

  Lonely.

  So very lonely.

  But it suits him.

  His quiet confidence is a measure of his strength, his security in what he wants out of this life, and who he is as a man.

  I like him. I just really, really like him. Even those slow, sexy smiles aren’t enough to make me nervous around him again – or to stop me from being curious about his life. Pure womanly curiosity has me glancing around his place, taking his stock, noticing things I missed when I first stepped inside.

  The trailer is set up more like a man cave, but it’s not impersonal. Photos are crammed on top of the TV. One of a man and a woman, both older, wearing pirate Halloween costumes. His folks maybe? And another pic of a teenage girl, long, raven curls swirling about her shoulders, hamming it up with a huge smile for the camera. A rifle hung in a rack above the door. And a mess of books, heaped on the carpet beside the recliner, mainly animal texts mixed with John Grisham. The whole place carries the masculine scents of leather and spices and citrus. Like the man himself. A rusty toaster takes up residence on the counter that looks as if it’s seen much better days.

  “I can’t believe I forgot to ask about the kits. How are they doing?”

  He chuckles and holds up his hands. “Except for the fact that they clawed my fingers pretty good this afternoon, they’re doing well. I can only hold two bottles at a time. One of the little buggers got upset about waiting.”

  “That’s the youth of today. They always get blamed for everything, don’t they?”

  “Well, they’re usually pretty rambunctious and impatient, just like human kids.”

  My eyes scan his huge hands and a little shiver whispers through me. His hands are so beautiful, with long, tapered fingers, it’s hard not to imagine what they’d feel like running over my skin. “Those are love bites.”

  Teasing the man seems natural. I actually already noticed the small, red scratches, the same way I noticed his strong hands, his worn and soft flannel shirt, his long eyelashes that framed those alluring eyes, the way his jeans hugged his tight ass when he walked. I noticed it all. And what woman wouldn’t? I give myself a pass because it’s hard not to be physically aware of a man like this. Sexuality radiates off him in lazy waves.

  His gaze meets mine. “Love bites? Wait until they get a bit older. They’re going to love me even more.”

  I push my chair back. “Do you still have to feed them tonight?”

  “Yup. One more time.” He rinses the plates, a quick task, and then carries over a pot of coffee and two ceramic mugs with bear paws on them. The whimsy makes me grin. “In a few more days, I want to cut out this late-night feeding. Getting all suited up for the elements at this time of the night is annoying as hell.”

  I frown. “You’re really stuck with the little devils, aren’t you? Where I come from, people hate foxes. They steal people’s roosters and kill them for food right out in the open in the suburbs. A lot of people have gotten into keeping chickens in their yard for some crazy reason. I know predators are just trying to survive, but it’s scary. You’re going above and beyond to keep animals alive that might just get killed anyway.”

  He scrubs a hand down his face. “You’re right on some level. But up here – in the wild – there are enough small game to keep them alive and thriving. Urban sprawl hasn’t reached up here. Foxes don’t search people’s property for food unless said people make it easy for them. They’re creatures of opportunity. So I’m giving them a fighting chance to fulfill their destiny in this life. Every living thing deserves the same. Did you know that the Grey Fox is the only fox that can climb trees? That makes them special. And climate change is really affecting them as much as the bears, forcing them farther north. My main problem now is mixing up their formula. My blender is on the fritz.”

  My eyes scan the small space classifying as a kitchen. “You mean like your toaster?”

  He casts his eyes toward the floor, and I swear I see a bit of a blush seep into his cheeks. “Guilty as charged. I’ve meant to replace them both, but I never seem to get around to it.”

  I snort a laugh. “For Pete’s sake, Knight. Just go online and order a couple at Kohl’s. You can get a nice discount and they’ll deliver them to the post office for free. Nobody should have to worry about burning the house down just to have a slice of toast. I can take a look at the blender if you want.”

  His gaze meets mine. “What?”

  “I’m pretty handy. When I was little, I wanted to be an engineer. My grandpa indulged me, and he and I used to take things apart and put them back together. I was obsessed with knowing how things work. Still am, to some degree.”

  “Really? That’s super cool. What’s your grandpa’s name?”

  “He passed away a few years ago.” As my mind drifts back to grandpa’s lost battle with colon cancer, a wave of sadness passes over me. “I still miss him every day. His name was Marvin.”

  He just sits there and regards me as if I’ve grown another head. Why is it
so hard for men to even consider that women are capable and can wield a screwdriver just as well as they can?

  Finally, he says, “Sorry to hear about Marvin.”

  I clear my throat. “Yeah. It sucked.” I wrap my hand tightly around my bear mug, wishing I’d kept my trap shut. Sadness weaves into the happiness I’ve been feeling all evening, squeezing it out. I brace myself, waiting for him to say something rude like men often do when they find out about my love for the way things work.

  But he doesn’t.

  He looks at me for a second, and then faster than I can inhale my next breath, he grabs the blender and sets it down in front of me. “Man, this is awesome. What are the chances? Give me a bear or a blizzard and I do just fine. But this… this thing makes me want to punt it back to Wisconsin.”

  Staring at the too old contraption, I chew my lower lip. “I don’t know for sure if I can fix it.”

  “But you can try? Do you need tools? There has to be something in my tool drawer you can use.” He rises from the table. “So I guess I never asked you where you’re from?”

  “Lampton, Iowa. A very small town. South of Des Moines. It’s basically one stop light in the middle of a corn field.”

  Within the space of ten minutes, I have parts strewn all over his counter. Like a surgeon’s nurse, he keeps feeding me tools and respectful shock. He’s probably faking the respect part to keep me working on fixing his ancient blender, but it still keeps a smile playing at my lips.

  “It had to take a lot of guts to pull up stakes and make your way up here – almost to Canada. You’re very brave, Angelica.”

  I don’t glance up. It’s not the first time he’s formed a completely ridiculous assumption about me. I fled Lampton on a wing and a prayer with betrayal coloring every decision. I am the opposite of brave.

  I consider being honest with him and spilling my guts, but I swallow down that urge. I have a long history of disappointing everyone around me and I don’t want to see that in his eyes.

  At least not yet. Not when he’s looking at me like I’m amazing.