Rogue's Revenge (13 page)

“So soon?” Myra sounded surprised. “I thought you might like to spend a few days renewing old memories.”

“Have you forgotten? I have a job. Anyway, with Heath Oakes as my sole companion, I’m eager to get the heck out of here. See you tomorrow. Love to Dad.”

She hung up before her mother could respond, thanked the teenager, who nodded despondently, and headed down Main Street.

The town, she discovered now that she had a chance to see it up close at her leisure, hadn’t changed much over the years of her absence. It still consisted of a single main street with a few owner-operated establishments on either side. There was a hardware store, a bakery Allison remembered made the best sticky buns she’d ever tasted, a shoe store, a furniture outlet, a grocery store, a craft boutique, and, across from the village’s only restaurant, a shop that sold clothing for the entire family.

Noting the restaurant owner was setting out a couple of sidewalk tables in the spring sunshine, she headed for the clothing store, with a smile. Her grandfather had always said spring had arrived when Douglas O’Brien set up his sidewalk cafe.

As she stepped inside, the bell over the door tinkled. Allison remembered the sound from the days when she, her mother, and her grandmother had shopped there. Nothing else had changed much, either, she realized as she glanced about at the crowded racks of merchandise filling the center area and the carefully piled sweaters and shirts on shelves along the walls.

The narrow strips of hardwood that formed the floor were the same, too, a little worse for wear but still just as much a part of the old store’s ambience as its tin filigree ceiling. Only a few posters along the walls, advertising brand-name outdoor wear, appeared new.

A wave of nostalgia swept over her as she remembered a visit to the shop with her grandmother. She recalled Grammie Adams, her blue eyes bright with pleasure, holding the little pair of jeans to her six-year-old granddaughter’s waist and declaring them perfect.

“May I help you?”

The saleslady’s voice made Allison start. She turned to see Mildred Wilson, the store owner, smiling at her.

“Why, if it isn’t little Allison!” Beaming with delight, the white-haired woman hurried to grasp Allison’s hands in hers.

“Hello, Mrs. Wilson.” Allison smiled as the familiar scent of the slender, well-groomed woman’s lavender perfume brought still more memories rushing back. “How are you?”

“Fine, just fine, honey. My, you’re as beautiful as your mother. But that hair and those eyes have to be your father’s. Is he still as handsome as ever?”

“Still.” Lord, it felt good, this ambience of being welcomed back home, of belonging.

“I’m so sorry about your grandfather.” Mildred Wilson became serious. “He was a fine man. His Lodge and its guests were a real boon to this village where there’s no industry and most people live by lumbering, farming, or fishing. Oh, we survived before the Chance, and I expect we’ll survive again, if…” She paused. She didn’t have to finish. Allison got the picture.

“I can’t believe Gramps’ guests would find much to buy here.” Allison gently tried to downplay the Lodge’s importance. “Most of those people were a pretty upscale lot.”

“That’s exactly the point!” Mildred Wilson clapped her nicely manicured, heavily ringed hands. “Some were seasoned outdoors people, but a lot weren’t. They frequently arrived here with all the wrong clothes, all the wrong equipment. Why, I finally brought in a whole selection of hiking and recreational clothing, just to fill their needs. Ellis’ Hardware sold fishing equipment like you wouldn’t believe!”

“Really?” Allison was astonished.

“Definitely. Mary Davis’ craft boutique has flourished because of their appetite for handmade quilts, home-knitted sweaters, and authentic wood carvings. Even the service station benefited from those who drove up here, and, would you believe, Douglas O’Brien has actually become famous for his oyster stew!”

“I had no idea the Chance had such a wide-reaching effect on the community,” Allison said.

“Well it has…had. Before Jack opened up, we survived. Afterwards, we had a little icing on our cake. Oh, well,” she changed the subject as Allison’s forehead furrowed. “Enough reminiscing. What can I do for you, honey? Some hiking clothes, maybe?” She looked hopeful.

“Actually what I need is a nice, simple dark suit. Mine got ruined in the rain at Gramps’ funeral.”

“Dark suit? Hmmmm. Size eight? Ten? Not much call for dark suits in May. Let me look upstairs. Browse around while I’m gone. You might see something else you’d like.”

Allison was idly flicking through a rack of Nonfiction sweatshirts when she happened to glance out the front window and saw Heath and Jessica Henderson seated at Douglas O’Brien’s newly established sidewalk cafe. The proprietor was standing back, hands on his broad, white-aproned hips, apparently awaiting their opinion on the steaming bowls of food in front of them. His famous oyster stew?

Heath dipped a spoon, raised it to his mouth, tasted, then looked up at the chef with a nod of approval. O’Brien gave a thumbs-up gesture and ambled back inside. As soon as he’d gone, Heath leaned across the table to speak to his companion. His expression told Allison the subject was serious.

At first Jessica appeared to be listening receptively. Then the situation changed. She shook her head vehemently and threw up her hands.

Heath leaned across the table, talking fast, seizing one of her upraised hands. For a few moments she continued to protest, but as he kept up his flow of words, slowly acquiesced. As Allison watched, the doctor’s hand fell to the table top, enveloped in his. Something in Allison Armstrong, CFO, sank like a stone.
What can he be saying to her, trying to convince her about?

He picked up his hat from an empty chair and stood, still holding her hand. Reluctantly, it appeared to Allison, Jessica followed suit. To her dismay, they headed across the street toward the clothing store.

“Mrs. Wilson? I have to leave. I’ll try to get back later,” she called up the stairway. “Thanks for your help.”

She dodged between racks of Levis, past stacks of hiking boots, and through the rear door.

Once outside, she flattened herself against the old building’s weathered shingles, then wondered what in the world she was doing. She had every right to be in town, in that store. Why was she hiding? She wasn’t afraid to face a man she despised, or his lady friend. She’d march back in there and…

She started to open the door. Through the first few inches she saw Heath holding up a pair of women’s bush pants for the doctor’s approval. She took them from him and held them to her waist.

Allison eased the door shut.
Planning a camping trip together. Good. That would keep him out of her way.
But as she turned to walk back to the service station, she wished she didn’t feel so annoyingly dejected.

It was Mildred Wilson’s telling her of the Chance’s importance to the local economy that caused her miserable feelings. She didn’t care that Heath Oakes and Dr. Jessica Henderson were preparing for a romantic getaway. She returned to the service station, paid the attendant for the gas and oil, and headed the old Jeep back to the Chance.

****

At six o’clock she heard a vehicle approaching. She glanced out the kitchen window, saw the Cherokee coming into the yard, and returned to the stove for a last check on supper. She’d expected Heath to go to his cabin and was surprised when the vehicle stopped at the Lodge’s back door.

When he stepped into the kitchen, she turned from placing a tray of biscuits in the oven and stopped, astonished. He was carrying a dozen yellow roses.

“Hello.” She thrust her hands into the pockets of the apron she was wearing over her jeans. Then, “You’re staring.”

“You’re cooking?” His tone reflected amazement.

“Sure.” She leaned back against a counter, crossed her arms, and shrugged. “My mother taught me. She’s famous for her dinner parties.”

“Do you think it might stretch to fill two plates? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Really?” She turned to check on a casserole in the oven. “I thought you might have had a lunch date with Dr. Henderson.”

“Jesse? Oh, we grabbed a bowl of oyster stew at O’Brien’s Cafe.” He advanced across the room. When Allison turned from checking the beef Burgundy warming in the oven with the biscuits, she found him almost touching her. “What would give you that idea?” Curiosity and suspicion colored his inquiry.

“Dr. Henderson’s mother remarked about your having a relationship when I went to the clinic looking for you.”
Don’t look at me like that, as if you can see right through me, right through my ridiculous thoughts.
“Dinner’s almost ready. And there is enough for two.”

“Thank you. By the way, these are for you.” He moved the roses into her arms.

“Really?” A rush of sexual anticipation overwhelmed her before suspicion took its place.
What are you up to?

“They’re a peace offering. I’ve done some thinking and realized Jack would be miserable if he knew we were squabbling over all he held dear. Let’s leave it to the lawyers to hash out.”

It didn’t seem possible. Heath Oakes was behaving like a gentleman, even apologizing…sort of.

“We do need to talk…rationally,” she said.

“I agree. But not until after dinner. Whatever it is, it smells much too fine to be overshadowed by a business discussion.” He flashed her a smile designed to melt the hardest heart, then turned toward the door. “Give me ten minutes,” he called back over his shoulder. “I want to shower. Oh, by the way, those roses? They’re fresh.” He let the door slam shut behind him.

His words reviving the memory of the secondhand flowers he’d salvaged for a nasty rich girl years earlier, Allison watched from the kitchen as he strode across to his cottage in the early evening twilight. After the lights had flashed on, through the unshaded windows of both kitchens she saw him pull off his jacket, then his shirt, and pause, bare-chested, to get a glass of water at the sink.

Wow! I bet her royal rottenness wouldn’t scoff at him now.
She looked down at the dozen golden blooms in her arms.
Flowers. A shower before dinner. He’s definitely up to something.
Tread carefully, Allison Armstrong. Tread very carefully.
She steeled herself as she reached into a cupboard for a vase.
Whatever it is, it’s not going to work.

She had placed the casserole and biscuits on the table and was returning to the kitchen to set up the coffeepot when he returned. She pushed through the swinging door as he stepped through the outer one. And caught her breath.

Instead of his usual bush pants he was wearing jeans—jeans that would have sold a million copies had he been the model for the brand—and a faded blue chambray shirt soft enough to emphasize every line of his broad shoulders and powerful chest. A hand-tooled brown leather belt at his narrow waist was inlaid with wildlife motifs. His hair, fresh from that shower he’d mentioned, had been brushed and looked so soft Allison felt a sudden, startling desire to run her fingers through its waves and curls.

“Dinner’s ready.”
Damn
. Her voice sounded surprised, squeaky.

“Good. I’ve brought wine.” He held up a decanter. “I opened it so it can breathe. It’s Jack’s homemade elderberry.”

****

“This is great,” he said half way through his second plate. “You’re full of surprises, Allison Armstrong. I never would have suspected you were a gourmet chef. More wine?”

“Please.” She extended her glass. Already it was helping to wash away her guilt about her lack of visits to her grandfather, her image of Heath with the beautiful Jessica Henderson, and even her worries about the village’s economic future. “For being a homemade variety, it’s really very good. And unique.”

“Jack used to start with four quarts of crushed elderberries, then add four pounds of sugar and a couple of oranges and lemons. Next he’d dissolve some yeast in water and pour it over a slice of toast. He’d let this float on top of the mixture for about four days and stir it every twenty-four hours. Then he’d strain and bottle it. Four weeks later it was ready. A lot of our guests request it.”

“Interesting,” she said and took another sip. “Are elderberries as good as their wine?”

“They have a pleasant enough taste,” he said. “But they’ll never surpass blueberries or wild strawberries. The wine is the best part of them. I’ll show you where they grow…if you’ll run the river with me.”

He looked over at her, golden-brown gaze issuing a subtle challenge.

“Run the North Passage in May?” She put her glass down with a bump. “No way. Aside from the fact that it’s too dangerous, I don’t have the time. I have to get back to Toronto tomorrow.”

“Remember the other time I dared you to do it?”

“And Gramps stopped us before you could taunt me into making one very big mistake.”

“I could have gotten us through.” He leaned back in his chair.

“Right. A sixteen-year-old city kid with more machismo than brains,” she scoffed.

“I was strong for my age, and Jack had taught me well.”

“Maybe, but I’m glad he caught us before we could shove off. I don’t think I’d ever seen Gramps so angry.”

“Yeah.” Heath shifted his shoulders and grinned. “He gave me one hell of a carding out after you left. Told me any part of me that touched you would be in danger of amputation.”

“Gramps said that?” Allison felt heat flooding up her face. She’d never suspected her gentle Gramps could talk that way.

“Sure did.” A grin curled one corner of his mouth. “And I had no reason to doubt it. Your grandfather might have been a gentle giant around you, but among men he was one tough customer.”

“Anyhow, Gramps was right, then, and I know it now, so no way.”
Why isn’t there some way the human body can control a humiliating blush?

“O…kay.” He drawled out the word, the grin turning to a smirk.

“Hey, look, I’m not afraid. Never mind that it would be madness, I have a previous obligation, that’s all.”