Nan Ryan (23 page)

He was rebuilding the stairway!

A new, wide path had been cleared all the way down to the waters of the bay. The old rotted ladder had been tom down and carted away. Lumber had been sized and cut to build new newel posts and steps. And it had all been done without her knowing. That’s why Charlie had been bursting with excitement of late. He knew about the construction of the stairway and he’d been dying to tell her.

Overwhelmed, Helen stared down at Kurt.

He wore no shirt. No shoes. His naked torso gleamed with sweat. The sleek muscles in his bare back slid and bunched with each lifting and lowering of his arm as he pounded with the hammer. In his mouth were several long nails. Stacked beside him were a half dozen precisely cut pieces of wood.

“What are you doing?” she heard herself ask stupidly.

He looked up and smiled around the nails in his mouth. He rose to his feet, the hammer in his hand, carefully took the nails out of his mouth, and said, “Take a wild guess.”

“Rebuilding Grandpa Burke’s gangway down to the bay.” He could tell by her expression she was immensely pleased.

He nodded. “Soon you can skip down the steps, counting as you go, just like when you were a little girl.”

Amazed that he’d remembered her telling him about that, she flushed. “I doubt I’ll do much skipping, but it’ll be grand to have the stairway again.” She sat down on the top step. “Such a wonderful surprise. I had no idea.”

Kurt crouched back down on his heels below her, still holding the hammer.

“You mean Charlie actually managed to keep from telling?”

“He did, bless his little heart. Now I feel bad. I’ve spoiled the big surprise, haven’t I?”

“You could always pretend you didn’t know.”

“I’ll do that,” she was quick to agree. “We’ll let him be the one to tell me. To show me.”

“I appreciate that,” said Kurt. His hand idly flattened on his chest and he realized he wasn’t wearing his shirt. He immediately dropped the hammer and reached for the discarded shirt. Looking sheepish, he said, “Sorry, ma’am. I know I promised I’d quit going around here bare-chested and I—”

“Captain, forget what I said.” Helen took the shirt from him, laid it on the step beside her. “If you’re cooler working without a shirt, then I see no harm in you being bare-chested.” She quickly changed the subject. “Will it take long to rebuild the steps?”

Kurt shook his dark head. “Two or three more days at the outside.”

“I can hardly wait,” she said truthfully.

“They’ll be real handy for us all,” he said, lifting a forearm to blot his perspiring forehead. “Charlie and Jolly will make good use of them. They’ll no longer have to walk so far out of the way to get down to their fishing pier.”

She nodded, smiling.

“I imagine I’ll be slipping down for a nighttime swim now and again.”

“Mmmm,” was all Helen said.

“And you …” he ventured, looking out over the calm body of water reddened by the rising sun, “you might enjoy an occasional afternoon stroll by the bay.”

The new stairway was soon finished.

But Helen made believe she had no idea. She did it for Charlie. And for Jolly as well. A big, overgrown kid at heart, Jolly was every bit as excited as his five-year-old playmate.

On the day the project was completed, Charlie jumped up as soon as supper was finished, went to his father’s chair, and whispered in Kurt’s ear.

“Yes,” said Kurt. “You may.”

Charlie flew around the table to Jolly. Kurt and Helen exchanged a quick conspiratorial glance. Charlie never noticed. Neither did Jolly because Charlie was whispering to him that he needed to borrow his red bandanna.

A good sport, the blindfolded Helen was soon being led—Charlie held one hand, Jolly the other—across the front yard toward the bluff.

“Just a few more steps,” Charlie told her.

“Nearly there,” Jolly backed him up.

Smiling, hands in his trousers pockets, Kurt followed the trio.

“Stop!” Charlie shouted. “Stop right here, Helen.”

She stopped and waited. Jolly reached up and removed the bandanna blindfold. Helen’s eyes grew wide and her hands went to her cheeks.

“A new stairway!” she declared loudly. “I can’t believe it! It’s wonderful, wonderful!”

She went on and on excitedly about what a “terrific surprise” it was and said that she had “no idea” and she was “too happy for words.” Charlie clapped his hands and squealed with delight. Jolly shook his white head and laughed happily. Kurt grinned and silently applauded her for her acting ability and for giving pleasure to a sweet little boy and a kind old man.

Genuinely happy to have the new gangway, Helen spontaneously turned to hug Jolly warmly and thank him. No sooner had she released him than she fell to her knees, hugged Charlie swiftly before he had the chance to object, and said, “It’s the best surprise I’ve ever had in my life. Thank you so much!”

She rose, smiling.

Charlie, cocking his blond head to one side, innocently asked, “Helen, aren’t you going to hug the captain too?”

Helen stiffened immediately. So did Kurt. They glanced anxiously at each other. The awkward moment passed. Finally Helen extended her hand. Kurt took it.

“Thank you,” she said, and for one fleeting instant it seemed to her he looked hurt that she had refused to embrace him.

Charlie loved the new wooden steps as much as Helen had when she was a child. The energetic little boy raced up and down them dozens of times each day, always with the shouted warning from a grown-up echoing in his ears: “Charlie, watch your step!” “Charlie, slow down, you’re going to break your neck!” “Charlie, don’t go near the water!”

Jolly found the new steps to be a godsend. He no longer had to hike nearly a half a mile, circling around behind the barns and angling down across the bluff, to get to the fishing pier directly below Helen’s house. Now he was just steps away.

Fifty-two to be exact.

Charlie had counted them. With Jolly’s help; Charlie couldn’t count that high by himself. Jolly was more than glad to teach him.

The new stairway came in handy when the Fourth of July rolled around. Helen, with Charlie’s help, fixed a fancy picnic lunch and the four of them trekked down the wooden steps. At sunset they sat on a blanket spread beside the water’s edge and feasted on fried chicken, sliced ham, fresh black-eyed peas, stuffed eggs, yeast rolls, and strawberry shortcake with thick cream.

As darkness descended, they climbed back up the stairs and spent the evening on the front gallery watching the fireworks display across Mobile Bay. Charlie squealed and clapped each time a colorful explosion lighted the night sky. Jolly clapped and shouted with him. A couple of happy kids caught up in the wonder of the incredible pyrotechnic exhibition.

But between the bursts of colored light, Jolly quietly noticed—as he had so many times—that Kurt Northway and Helen Courtney continued to behave like polite strangers. They were graciously civil in front of him and Charlie, but the chasm between them was as wide as ever.

Jolly could tell.

They consciously avoided each other’s eyes. They never directly addressed each other. They had chosen to sit as far apart as possible to watch the fireworks display. Helen was in her armless rocker at the northeast corner of the gallery. Kurt lounged on the porch steps.

Jolly noticed, but said nothing.

Jolly Grubbs was not only clever at handling impressionable five-year-olds. He was pretty good at dealing with complicated adults as well.

Never once did Jolly make an attempt to draw Helen and Kurt closer together. If they chose to remain uncommunicative strangers giving each other a wide berth, or if in time they became the best of friends, it was their lookout, not his.

Besides, most likely he’d never be able to persuade either of them that living in the past or clinging to old hatreds was a terrible waste of time. That was something they would have to discover for themselves. Let them learn about life from the living of it.

They were intelligent, sensitive, decent people.

They were also young, healthy, and handsome.

And undoubtedly lonely.

Chapter Twenty-seven

S
ummertime had come to Spanish Fort.

Long scorching days. Endless steamy nights. The sticky, stifling heat was now a constant. It had taken firm hold and would blanket the Deep South for the remainder of the summer. It was muggy even at sunrise. By noontime each day the Eastern Shore was sweltering under a high, blindingly white sun.

As the interminable afternoons dragged torpidly toward a late summer sunset, thunderheads would often boil up and the sky would darken drastically. Heat lightning would flash in jagged lines across the blackness of the heavens and booming thunder would rattle the windows of the old farmhouse.

Occasionally the huge white thunderheads generated enough energy to produce a brief rainstorm. When that happened, the whole sky opened up and a violent downpour lashed the land, pelted the house’s slanted roof, and dripped off the moss-hung oaks.

A fleeting respite from the oppressive heat.

But as soon as the storm passed and the sun popped out again, it was hotter and steamier than ever. It was hard to draw a breath, much less get the work done.

As the wilting humid heat settled over the southlands, Helen found herself becoming increasingly short-tempered.

Not with Charlie.

Never with the sweet, lively Charlie. Already she loved—too much—the small blond boy whose laughter warmed her heart.

Her flashes of temper were directed solely at Charlie Northway’s darkly handsome father. Lately she lashed out at Kurt Northway with ever-increasing frequency. But it never fazed him, which frustrated her no end.

No matter how angry she got or what hateful words she flung at him, the Yankee’s cool self-discipline remained intact. He never raised his voice. Never argued. Never took her to task. Just continued to go about his work with quiet diligence, weeding, hoeing, thinning, pruning—laboring long hours under a broiling summer sun.

Uncomplaining. Unexcitable. Unperturbed.

With one exception—that memorable day she had suggested hooking Raider up to the plow—she had never seen Northway show any real emotion. None at all. Which of course could only mean one thing. The big, beautiful thoroughbred was of significant importance to him. And she, of course, was not, so her hostility didn’t bother him in the least.

Not that she cared.

She sure didn’t.

Still, for the life of her she couldn’t understand him. Couldn’t figure him out. He remained a man of mystery. He kept silent, but he fought to make the farm prosper. He suffered quietly and worked hard. Much as she hated to admit it, he worked harder than was necessary. He did far more than was asked of him. He couldn’t have done more had the place belonged to him.

He seemed to take quiet pleasure in fixing things. He had painstakingly fashioned a flagstone walk leading across the front yard to the new steps he had built down to the bay. He had seen to it that the shrubbery was trimmed and thinned. That the lawns were neat and free of weeds. That the overgrowth of boxwoods bordering the front yard was pruned and shaped into a low well-shaped hedge.

Helen had to admit that her long-neglected place was beginning to look like it had in days of old.

The Yankee was always busy at some project and Helen often looked up from her own chores to quietly observe him.

Naked to the waist. Suntanned. Gleaming with sweat. An unsettling sight, and one which never failed to capture her attention.

More than once she had allowed her rapt gaze to travel slowly downward from his full head of glistening jet-black hair to the strong tanned column of his neck and smooth broad shoulders. Then to the wide chest covered with crisp black hair. Midnight hair that thinned into a line going down his flat belly and disappeared into the dark trousers that clung to his slim hips and long legs.

He was as sinuous as a panther, handsomely virile, exuding a potent maleness. And she was attracted. Helplessly attracted. Dark and seductive, he was the kind of man who stirred shameful thoughts in ladies who should know better. A man who had but to walk into view to disturb the equilibrium of any female present.

The sight of him—all rippling muscles and strong animal magnetism—made Helen’s pulse quicken, her face feel hot, and her throat to go dry.

And that made her feel terribly guilty. And angry.

Angrier than ever.

Damn the cool, controlled Yankee and his dark, threatening masculinity!

Kurt was not quite as cool and controlled as Helen supposed. From that very first morning, the morning she had snatched off her bonnet and the sun had made a halo of her long, golden hair, he had felt a faint, unwanted stirring of desire.

As the weeks had gone by and the sultry heat had descended, that faint stirring had grown steadily into full-blown hunger. Manfully he had fought the ever-present yearning, but without complete success. Helen Courtney was young, beautiful, and very desirable. He desired her. More than she’d ever know.

He had told himself, time and again, that it wasn’t actually Helen Courtney he desired, only that which she embodied. Lush, warm femininity. A lissome, slender body. Pale alabaster skin. Silky golden hair. Dazzling blue eyes. Lips a soft, full promise of pleasure.

Yet no matter how many times he told himself it wasn’t Helen he wanted, but a woman, a beautiful woman, he knew that was not the truth. The glamorous Yasmine Parnell had brazenly offered herself to him the day of the Baldwin County Fair. She was his for the taking. Should he choose, he could ride to her home in the dead of the night—this very night—and Yasmine would welcome him into her bed. Even if Niles Loveless had been there only hours earlier.

Kurt was not even mildly tempted.

He had known scores of women like Yasmine Parnell. When he was very young, very naive, and very reckless, he’d spent many nights in the arms of such women. Naughty married women. Urbane single women. Pampered rich women. The horsey set. In their beds he’d learned the art of lovemaking. They had taught him how to give a woman pleasure, had shown him the most sensitive spots to touch, to caress, to kiss. And exactly
how
to touch, caress, and kiss. He had been an apt pupil. He had learned his lessons well.