SNOWFIRES (8 page)

"You're fighting a losing battle," he said.
"Blue will have to go out again before night. I'll have to go
refuel the generator and check the brazier in the well house this
afternoon before four."

"It's not that I'm a compulsive cleaner, but
I’m nervous about using someone else's home. Besides, there's not a
lot to do here."

"Nora Roberts." He picked up the book she
left on the table. "Good author, but I would have pictured you more
a non-fiction fan."

She paused and leaned on her mop handle. "You
read romance novels?"

"Princess, I have read everything I could get
my hands on. If you think there's nothing to do here, you should be
off duty on a ship. A good writer is a good writer, no matter what
the genre."

She finished mopping with one last swipe and
wrung out the mop. "And just what non-fiction did you think I
read?"

"Maybe art history, fashion, or something
work related. I don't know." Trent stepped forward to lift the pail
of dirty water. "Here, I'll throw the dirty water outside. All we
need is a stopped-up sink to complete this happy picture."

She moved aside, grateful to let him step
into the doorway's cold for her. "The Martins don't seem to have
much reading material. I found a few magazines. If they have cards
or dominoes, I couldn’t find them. Not even a checker set."

“
Wonder how they pass the time in the
evening? There’s not that much on TV without satellite service.” He
opened the door and went out only far enough to miss the small
porch with the dirty water. With a shiver, he shut the door and set
the pail on the floor near the door.

"My grandparents and I play gin rummy
sometimes when I visit them. When I was small, Dad taught me to
play poker." Holly stood the mop in the empty pail to dry.

Trent produced a paperback suspense novel by
an author Holly sometimes read. “Never travel without a book.”

“
Maybe you could read later. While
there’s light from the windows, you could fix that squeaking
cupboard door. And if you can find a washer, would you fix the sink
faucet?”

He scowled. “First animals and now home
repairs.” He shrugged and started rummaging through the Martin’s
tools. “Might as well make myself useful since we’re stuck here.
Martin can probably use the help.”

“
Great.” Holly grabbed the broom, dust
rag, and a can of spray furniture polish. “I’ll dust and sweep.
It’s not much but at least we can leave the place a little better
than we found it to show our appreciation.”

They worked companionably through the day. If
they’d had electricity and hot water, she could really have cleaned
by laundering the curtains and vacuuming the furniture and floors.
Late in the afternoon, Blue barked to go out. His sudden yip after
the quiet startled Holly and she jumped.

"I think this is my cue to check on the
generator and the water well."

Holly set her cleaning supplies aside. "Okay,
I'll rustle up something for dinner." And she meant rustle. In
spite of Trent assuring her they’d been invited to use whatever
they needed, it made her feel a thief to paw through the cupboards
and freezer.

"Sounds like a plan to me." He snapped his
fingers. “Come on, Blue." The dog bounded for the door. Trent
turned back to her. "For a watch dog, he's certainly bonded with us
since we rescued him from that snow-covered dog house
yesterday."

Telling herself she was just as bad as Blue,
she could barely keep her mind off Trent. Alternately hating him
and longing for him, she fell more and more under his spell. His
green eyes flashed with triumph when he accomplished small
victories like penning the cattle or fixing the furnace. It was as
if he became a different person, younger and almost carefree.

She caught herself with a reprimand. How
could she have forgotten that Geneva blamed him for her father's
heart attack?

CHAPTER SIX

Sighing
, Holly
turned to prepare their evening meal. For lunch they’d snacked on
treats sent with them by her grandmother. A large man like Trent
probably required something more substantial for the
evening.

Holly searched through the refrigerator,
freezer, and small pantry to gather the ingredients for their
dinner. The Martin family had little in furnishings, so the quality
of home canned and frozen foods she found for a hearty meal
surprised her. She guessed that came from having a personal meat
supply and a garden.

“
Ah, steaks are manly food and Trent’s
a manly man. These should do.” Holly popped a couple of potatoes in
the oven to bake and started the steaks thawing.

She couldn’t keep her mind from wandering
back to the time of her father’s death. With guilt Holly remembered
the lovely holiday she’d been on in Cancun with her friend Laura.
Darn, it was her first real vacation in all the years she’d worked
at Marvel, but it had been cut short by the call from her family.
She’d arrived home to find her father in intensive care and her
family's finances in ruins. Geneva had filled her in on the
gruesome details of Trent's visit to their home, his confrontation
with her father.

In the few conscious moments he had with her
before his death, Walter Tucker made Holly promise to look after
her half-sisters.

And being the stupid person you are, you
saddled yourself not only with the girls, but also with their bitch
of a mother. Way to go, Holly.

As Holly fried bacon for the potato topping,
she recalled that after she made that promise, her father had
grabbed her wrist and held with a surprising strength. He’d
whispered, "Get... Macleod...to...to." That was all he said before
he slipped back into drug-induced sleep from which he hadn’t
awakened.

She bit her lip and fought frustration.
If only her father had told her what he meant. Get Macleod
to
what
?

For countless nights she’d tried to imagine.
At first she thought he meant just "get Macleod," but she couldn’t
ignore the trailing "to" her father gasped twice.

Again and again she’d told herself the same
thing. If only she’d been home, if only she’d interceded between
her dad and Trent, then her father might still be alive.

She paused from grating cheese and rubbed a
hand across her face as if to wipe away the images of her father in
ICU.

How many hundreds of times since his death
had she had these same pointless thoughts?

Face it. That kind of thinking has gotten
you nowhere.

The reprimand did little to ease her guilt.
Now she was once again responsible for a dangerous situation. The
danger here lay both from the elements and the volatile thoughts
racing through her mind about the man who shared her isolation.

There was no doubt Trent Macleod meant danger
for her as well as for Marvel. Big time—and in more ways than one.
She set the table for dinner.

After spending more time with Trent on a
personal level, she realized he was a man driven to succeed at all
costs. If he had truly flaunted his success in her father's face,
she didn’t understand why. He would have had to be cruel to act
that way.

Holly slid the steaks in to broil and
reasoned with herself. Trent was sometimes harsh, even hard, but in
two months since they’d met she’d never seen him deliberately rude
or cruel.

Why would Trent have taunted her dad? She
shook her head. No reason she could think of.

Yet, Geneva said it was Trent's treatment of
her father that so enraged Walter Tucker that it caused a fatal
heart attack. Geneva had left no doubt of that, for it was within
an hour of Trent's visit that her father fell to the floor and
Geneva called 9-1-1.

How could Holly have sat beside Trent for
several hours, reading and conversing with him as if nothing were
between them?

Darn it, on the off chance Geneva was
truthful, how could Holly find Trent so attractive when he’d
personally wreaked such havoc in her family's life?

She groaned and tossed the salad. Face it,
Holly. Your wicked stepmother is not above twisting facts for her
own purposes. She paused. But why would she lie about this?

Even if what Geneva said was untrue, Holly
knew Trent’s plans would make drastic changes in the company her
grandfathers founded by expanding it and making dangerous financial
commitments in opposition of her father’s plans.

And Holly had nearly made love with him last
night. What a dolt she was. A flush spread across her face. She
placed a hand to her cheek and felt the heat there.

Heat. Last night her body had burned for him.
Even now she almost swooned at the memory of his hands and lips on
her.

Oh, yeah, you want him, big time.

She’d fallen under his spell. No other way to
put it.

Hugging her arms now, she let the memory of
his mouth on her breast spiral her into that dream once more. Darn
it, she’d never felt so cherished, so treasured. Sighing, she
almost arched into the memory.

With a snap, she brought herself back to
reality. She stood in the middle of a kitchen talking to herself,
for heaven's sake. It was a dream, just a foolish dream. What a
fool she’d acted, but at least she waked in time to save herself
from a more serious mistake.

On an icy blast, Blue burst into the room
followed by Trent. He stamped his feet and rubbed his hands
together.

"What's for dinner?" He wiggled his eyebrows
in a mock leer. "Princess, I'm hungry enough to eat you right where
you stand."

An erotic image flashed through her mind, one
she fought to erase. Why was she so physically attracted to this
mystery man? Maybe if she knew more about him it would help her
firm up her opinion. How did she accomplish that?

***

After dinner Trent helped her with the dishes
then retrieved his unfinished book and sat at the table near the
two candles. “May as well read in here and share candles.”

Although the heavy cloud cover that coupled
with short winter days required lighted candles, the evening lay
ahead of them. She looked around the room. Everything seemed in its
place; kitchen cleaned and the dog and cat had food and water.

She sat in the chair across the table from
Trent. "Yes, we may as well read."

She picked up her book. Even though it was by
one of her favorite authors, she couldn’t focus on the story with
this vibrant man across from her. The soft glow in the room and the
flickering shadows cast by the flames highlighted his rugged good
looks and invited the romantic thoughts Holly fought. Memories of
their sleep-induced encounter of the previous night refused to
leave her mind. Reading about a Victorian lady’s torrid romance did
nothing to push the same ideas from her brain...and her body.

What she’d seen of his personality since
they’d been stranded made her suspect Geneva’s awful account of his
character. Maybe Trent wasn’t as bad as he’d been painted. Bracing
herself, she decided to bait the bear.

"Trent, tell me about yourself."

He tensed as if her question startled and
appalled him. She refused to be put off. "Why are you so secretive
about your past?"

"That again?" He sighed and laid his book on
the table. "What the hell, in today's world there are no secrets.
So, what do you want to know?" He crossed his arms over his
chest.

"Why did you get stuck with the name of
pirate?" She persisted. "You weren't actually a pirate, were
you?"

He raised an eyebrow. “Really, Holly, what do
you think?” He sighed heavily as if unsure what she believed. "Damn
that label. It's a long story."

She gestured toward the ice-encrusted window.
"It would seem we have plenty of time for even the most involved
story."

He exhaled again. "Okay, you win. There was
this guy on the ship, Ollie Peterson. A big guy and a real
harda—um, troublemaker. We had words and almost came to blows a
couple of times. Man, I still see Ollie's face in nightmares."

"Was he like Captain Bligh?"

"No, just a deck hand, same as me. John
Swenson was our captain. A good man.” He raked his hand through his
hair. “This was about fifteen years ago. A couple of crew had been
recommended by Ollie."

He shifted and looked past her as if
remembering. "Crew quarters are close. I overheard Ollie and his
friends plotting to smuggle paintings into the U.S. for a private
collector. They’d stolen them from a museum."

She gasped. "What a terrible position to be
in. What did you do?"

He shrugged. "Stole the paintings back and
alerted the port authorities. Stored them in Swenson’s
quarters."

Shaking her finger at him, she said, "I think
you left out a lot. What did the men do when they discovered their
paintings missing?"

"They suspected me at once. If not for
Swenson's quick action, I'd be at the bottom of the ocean."

He sighed and raked his fingers through his
hair again, which had dislodged his perfect cut and made him look
like an owl. "To put it mildly, they weren't happy. The insurance
company was, though. They split the reward money between the
Captain and me. I don’t know what he did with his share, but I
invested mine."

"What does that have to do with being a
pirate?"

"Nothing. Some eager reporter played up the
fact that I stole the stolen paintings back. Sort of piracy at high
sea. Those guys are always looking for some clever way to slant a
story. You should have seen the news photo taken before I could
clean away the results of the battle with Peterson and his
partners."

He chuckled. "Damned if I didn't look like a
pirate, but with a black eye instead of a patch. It must have been
a slow news day, because I made headlines. The name stuck."