Crossed Hearts (Matchmaker Trilogy) (8 page)

“You can get dressed if you want.”

It was, of course, the wise thing to do. Perhaps, once she was wearing her own clothes again, she’d feel less vulnerable, less exposed.…

Crossing to the dryer, she removed her things and folded them over the crook of her elbow. When she reached for her sweater, though, she found it still damp.

“Here.” Garrick stood directly behind her, holding out one of his own sweaters. “Clean and dry.”

She accepted it with a quiet thanks and made her escape to the bathroom. He was working at the fireplace when she came out. She suddenly realized that though the fire had gone out during the night, the cabin had stayed warm.

“How do you manage for heat and electricity?” she asked, bracing her hands on the back of the sofa.

He added a final log to the arrangement and reached for a match. “There’s a generator out back.”

“And food? If you can’t get to the store in this weather…”

“I stocked up last week.” Sitting back on his heels, he watched the flames take hold. “Anyone who’s lived through mud season once knows to be prepared. The freezer is full, and the cabinets. I picked up more fresh stuff a couple of days ago, but I’m afraid the bacon we had for breakfast is the last of it for a while.”

He’d have had some left for tomorrow if he hadn’t had to share. Leah’s feelings of guilt remained unexpressed, though; there was nothing more boring than a person who constantly apologized.

Garrick stood and turned to face her, then wished he hadn’t. She was wearing his sweater. It was far too large for her, of course, and she’d rolled the sleeves to a proper length, but the way it fell around her shoulders and breasts was far more suggestive than he’d have dreamed. She looked adorable. And unsure.

He gestured toward the sofa. With a tight smile, she took possession of a corner cushion, drew up her knees and tucked her feet beneath her. That was when he caught sight of the tear in her slacks.

“How’s the leg?”

“Okay.”

“Did you change the dressing?”

“No.”

“Have you looked under it?”

“I’d be able to see if something was oozing through the gauze. Nothing is.”

She hadn’t looked, he decided. Either she was squeamish, or the gash didn’t bother her enough to warrant attention. He wanted to know which it was.

Facing her on the sofa, he eased back the torn knit of her slacks.

“It’s fine. Really.”

But he was quickly tugging at the adhesive and, less quickly, lifting the gauze. “Doesn’t look fine,” he muttered. “I’ll bet it hurts like hell.” With cautious fingertips he probed the angry flesh around the wound. Leah’s soft intake of breath confirmed his guess. “It probably should have been stitched, but the nearest hospital’s sixty miles away. We wouldn’t have made it off the mountain.”

“It’s not bleeding. It’ll be okay.”

“You’ll have a scar.”

“What’s one more scar.”

He met her eyes. “You have others?”

Oh, yes, but only one was visible to the naked eye. “I had my appendix out when I was twelve.”

He imagined the way her stomach would be, smooth and soft, warm, touchable. When the blood that flowed through his veins grew warmer, he tried to imagine an ugly line marring that flesh, but couldn’t. Nor, at that moment, could he tear his eyes from hers.

Pain and loneliness. That was what he saw. She blinked once, as though to will the feelings away, but they remained, swelling against her self-restraint.

He saw, heard, felt. He wanted to ask her, to tell her, to share the pain and ease the burden. He wanted to reach out.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he rose quickly and strode off, returning moments later with a tube of ointment and fresh bandages. When he’d dressed the injury to his satisfaction, he replaced the first-aid supplies in the cupboard, took a down vest, then a hooded rain jacket from the closet, stepped into a pair of crusty work boots and went out into the storm.

Leah stared after him, belatedly aware that she was trembling. She didn’t understand what had happened just then, any more than she’d understood it when it had happened the night before. His eyes had reflected every one of her emotions. Could he know what she felt?

On a more mundane level, she was puzzled by his abrupt departure, mystified as to where he’d be going in the rain. A short time later she had an answer when a distinct and easily recognizable sound joined that of the steady patter on the roof. She went to the window and peered out. He was across the clearing, chopping wood beneath the shelter of a primitive lean-to.

Smiling at the image of the outdoorsman at work, she returned to the sofa. While she directed her eyes to the fire, though, she wasn’t as successful with her thoughts. She was wondering how the hands of a woodsman, hands that were callused, fingers that were long and blunt, could be as gentle as they’d been. Richard had never touched her that way, though as her husband, he’d touched her far more intimately.

But there was touching and there was touching, one merely physical, the other emotional, as well. There was something about Garrick … something about Garrick …

Unsettled by her inability to find answers to the myriad of questions, she sought diversion in one of the books she’d seen on the shelf. Sheer determination had her surprisingly engrossed in the story when Garrick returned sometime later.

Arms piled high with split logs, he blindly kicked off his boots at the door, deposited the wood in a basket by the hearth, threw back his hood and unbuckled his jacket.

Leah didn’t have to ask if the rain had let up. The boots he’d left by the door were covered with mud; his jacket dripped as he shrugged it off.

She returned to her book.

He took up one of his own and sat down.

Briefly she felt the chill he’d brought in. It touched her face, her arm, her leg on the side nearest to him. The fire was warm, though, and the chill soon dissipated.

She read on.

“Do you like it?” he asked after a time.

“It’s very well written.”

He nodded at that and lowered his eyes to his own book.

Leah had turned several pages before realizing that he hadn’t turned a one. Yet he was concentrating on something.…

Craning her neck, she tried to reach the running head at the top of the page. She was beginning to wonder whether she needed a new eyeglass prescription, when he spoke.

“It’s Latin.”

She smiled. “You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“Are you a Latin scholar?”

“Not yet.”

“You’re a novice.”

“Uh-huh.”

Reluctant to disturb him, she returned to her own corner. Studying Latin? That was odd for a trapper, not so odd for a man with a very different past. She would have liked to ask about that past, but she didn’t see how she could. He wasn’t encouraging conversation. It was bad enough that she was here. The more unobtrusive she was, the better.

Delving into her own book again, she’d read several chapters, when his voice broke the silence.

“Hungry?”

Now that he’d mentioned it … “A little.”

“Want some lunch?”

“If I can make it.”

“You can’t.” It was his house, his refrigerator, his food. Given the doubts he’d had about himself since Leah had arrived, he needed to feel in command of something. “Does that mean you won’t eat?”

She grimaced. “Got myself into a corner with that one, didn’t I?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll eat.”

Trying his best not to smile, Garrick set down his book and went to make lunch. Despite the time he’d spent at the woodshed, he was still annoyed with Victoria. It was difficult, though, to be annoyed with Leah. She was as innocent a pawn in Victoria’s game as he was, and, apparently, as uncomfortable about it. But she was a good sport. She conducted herself with dignity. He respected that.

None of the women he’d known in the past would have acceded to as untenable a situation with such grace. Linda Prince would have been livid at the thought of someone isolating her in a secluded cabin. Mona Weston would have been frantic without a direct phone line to her agent. Darcy Hogan would have ransacked his drawers in search of a flattering garment to display her goods. Heather Kane would have screamed at him to stop the rain.

Leah Gates had taken the sweater he offered with gratitude, had found herself a book to read and was keeping to herself.

Which made him all the more curious about her. He wondered what had happened to her marriage and why she didn’t date now. He wondered whether she had family, or dreams for the future. He wondered whether the loneliness he saw in her eyes from time to time had to do with the loneliness of this mountainside. Somehow he didn’t think so. Somehow he thought the loneliness went deeper. He felt it himself.

Lunch consisted of ham-and-cheese sandwiches on rye. Leah didn’t go scurrying for a knife to cut hers in two. She didn’t complain about the liberal helping of mayonnaise he’d smeared on out of habit, or about the lettuce and tomato that added bulk and made for a certain sloppiness. She finished every drop of the milk he’d poured without making inane cracks about growing boys and girls or the need for calcium or the marvel of cows. When she’d finished eating, she simply carried both of their plates to the sink, rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher, then returned to the sofa to read.

Midway through a very quiet afternoon, Garrick wasn’t concentrating on Latin. He was still thinking of the woman curled in the opposite corner of the sofa. Her legs were tucked beneath her and the book remained open on her lap, but her head had fallen into the crook of the sofa’s winged back, and she was sleeping. Silently. Sweetly.

He felt sorry for her. The trip she’d made yesterday—first the drive from New York, then the harrowing hike to his cabin—had exhausted her. He felt a moment’s renewed anger toward Victoria for having put her through that ordeal, then realized that Victoria was probably as ignorant of mud season as any other nonnative. Now that he thought of it, she had only been up to the cabin in the best of weather—late spring, summer, early fall.

They’d met for the first time during one of those summer trips, and even then, barely knowing her, he’d asked her why she came at all. She was obviously a city person. She didn’t hunt, didn’t hike, didn’t plant vegetables in a garden behind the cabin. He remembered her response as clearly as if she’d made it yesterday. She had looked him in the eye and told him that the cabin made her feel closer to Arthur. No apology. No bid for sympathy. Just an honest, heartfelt statement of fact that had established the basis of strength and sincerity on which their relationship had bloomed.

Of course, she hadn’t been particularly honest in sending Leah to stay in a cabin that didn’t exist. He had no doubt, though, that she’d been well-meaning in her desire to get Leah and him together. What puzzled him, irked him, was that she should have known better. He’d fought her in the past. He thought he’d told her enough about himself and his feelings to make himself clear. Why would she think things had changed?

Once upon a time he’d been a city man. He’d lived high and wild. The only things he’d feared in the world had been obscurity and anonymity. Ironically, that very fear had driven him higher and wilder, until he’d destroyed his career and very nearly himself in the process. That was when he’d retreated from the world and sought haven in New Hampshire.

Now he feared everything he’d once prized so dearly. He feared fame because it was fleeting. He feared glory because it was shallow. He feared aggressive crowds because they brought out the worst in human nature, the need for supremacy and domination even on the most mundane of levels.

He’d had it up to his eyeballs with competition. Even after being away from it for four years, he remembered with vile clarity that feeling of itching under the skin, of not being able to sit still and relax for fear someone would overtake him. He couldn’t bear the thought of having to be quicker, cruder, more cutthroat than the next. He didn’t want to have to worry about how he looked or how he smelled. He didn’t want to have to see those younger, more eager actors waiting smugly in the wings for him to falter. And he didn’t want the women, clinging like spiders, feeding off him until a sweeter fly came along.

Oh, yes, he knew what he didn’t want. He’d made a deliberate intellectual decision when he’d left California. The world of glitz and glamour was behind him, as was the way of life that had had him clawing his way up a swaying ladder. The life he lived here was free of all that. It was simple. It was clean. It was comfortable. It was what he
did
want.

Why, then, did he feel threatened by Leah’s presence?

He blinked and realized that she was waking. Rolling slightly, she stretched one leg until the sole of her foot touched his thigh. He felt its warmth and the slight pressure behind it. He saw the way one hand dropped limply to her belly. He watched her turn her head, as though trying to identify the nature of her pillow, then open her eyes with the realization of where she was.

She looked at him. He didn’t blink. Slowly, carefully, she drew back her leg and, pushing herself into a seated position, picked up her book and lowered her eyes.

Leah did pose a threat to him, but it wasn’t the immediate one of disturbing his peace. She was peaceful herself, quiet, undemanding. No, the threat wasn’t a physical one. It was deeply emotional. He looked at her and saw human warmth and companionship—which were the very two things his life lacked. He’d thought he could live without them. Now, for the first time, he wondered.

Leah, too, was pensive. Silently setting her book aside, she went to the window. Rain fell as hard as ever from an endless cloud mass that was heavy and gray. She figured that the rain would last at least through the rest of the day. But even when it stopped—if she’d interpreted Garrick correctly—she wouldn’t be immediately on her way. There was the mud to contend with, and if this was mud season, it was possible she’d be here for a while.

Propping her elbows on the window sash, she cupped her chin in her palms and stared out. She could have done worse, she’d told him, and indeed it was so. Garrick Rodenhiser was an easy cabin mate. She was reading, much as she did at home. If she had her dictionaries and thesauruses with her, she could be working much as she did at home. If his pattern of activity on this day was any indication, they could each do their own thing without bothering the other.