Alaskan Nights (12 page)

Bjorn returned from the plane with the fly rod and handed it to Brandon. “So, I suppose I won’t be needed to come by again until the tenth, when you wanted to be picked up?” he asked Isabella.

Still frowning at Brandon she nodded. “That’ll be fine.”

“You sure about that?” Bjorn asked, concern plain in his tone, in the crinkle between his bushy platinum eyebrows as he frowned.

“Mr. Carlton, I assure you, everything is fine.” She smiled to put him at ease.

“All right then, kids, I’ll be going.”

“Mr. Carlton,” Brandon said as he pulled a folded piece of notebook paper from his back pocket. “Could you please see that my mother gets this? Her address is on the back. She must be worried sick.”

“Sure thing.” Bjorn shook Brandon’s hand and then Isabella’s. “We’ll be seeing you.” He gave Brandon a glare for good measure.

Brandon smiled. “She’ll be fine.”

“She better be,” were Bjorn’s parting words as he untied his aircraft then climbed into the cockpit.

Isabella waved as he taxied away. Then she gave Brandon one good glare before she stomped toward the cabin.

Brandon waited until Bjorn’s plane was in the air before he called after her. “You could have told me to leave, ya know.”

Her answer was the cabin door slamming behind her. Brandon smiled. He felt good. Damn good. She hadn’t wanted him to leave. She wasn’t happy about that fact, but he’d work on changing her mind. As it was, he was here. With her. For another two weeks.

Alone.

As incredibly childish as the impulse was, he wanted to jump for joy.

~*~*~

The sinking sun threw shades of fuchsia, lavender and gold onto the puffy, cotton candy clouds, and the tangy scent of low bush cranberries wafted on the soft evening breeze. Standing on the porch steps, rubbing her arms against the chill, Isabella called, “Food’s ready.”

“Be there in a sec,” Brandon answered then grunted as she heard a loud
thunk
of wood on wood. “Gonna clean up first.”

“Okay.” Isabella went back inside and lit a fire in the stove, surprised at how much cooler the air had become. As if the seasons had suddenly decided to change between morning and evening.

With the fresh bread Bjorn had brought, along with a four-pound chunk of extra-sharp cheddar cheese, Isabella made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup with cooked macaroni noodles. Her all-time favorite hot lunch. Her mom used to make it for her when she was little.

Along with the bread and cheese, there were some apples and oranges, two cans of mosquito repellant, another can of ground coffee, and a quart jar with a masking tape label that said,
Hot Chocolate Mix
and mixing instructions. There was a bag of miniature marshmallows and two-dozen different kinds of chocolate bars. Bjorn’s wife must have packed the food. A lovely woman, Matty Carlton had expressed her fear for a single woman in the woods alone for a month. Chances were, she was the one who’d sent Bjorn all the way out here to check on her. Isabella smiled. It warmed her heart to be worried over. She hadn’t had a mother to look out for her in many, many years.

Brandon came in shirtless, shoeless and wet. He’d gone for a swim in the lake. His hair was finger-combed straight back, his jeans zipped but not buttoned. What had she gotten herself into?

“Sit down at the table. Hot soup and sandwiches.” She hoped her voice sounded more normal to him than it did to herself.

“It’s getting cold out there,” Brandon said as he sat down in the chair closest to the stove. “I think it might frost tonight.”

Isabella nodded as she poured soup into two deep Melmac bowls. “Feels like it. Smells like it.” She put the bowls on the table and then went back to the heavy fry pan for the grilled cheese sandwiches.

He accepted the plate of sandwiches from her. “Looks great.” He took a bite. “You sure eat a lot for such a little thing.”

“And you’re rude. Talking with your mouth full
and
commenting on the amount a woman eats.”

He almost choked on his food, trying to stifle a laugh. “Well, I figured since we’re just friends, I could be as honest as I would be with anyone.”

Once again, he wondered if he read more into her eyes than he should. She looked disappointed that he’d said they were
just friends
.

“Fine. I get all the candy bars to myself. Then you’ll see how much I can eat.” She took a bite of food. “And I guess I can be as rude as you,” she added, her mouth full of sandwich.

Brandon laughed. “Okay, did you know you snore?”

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?” she asked

“You make terrible coffee.”

“Your piloting skills could use some work.”

“That was low.”

“Bella one, Brandon zero,” she said, holding up a finger to show her point, laughing with him. “Now shut up and eat.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When Brandon put the last bite of sandwich in his mouth, he smiled and leaned back in his chair. “That was fantastic. My mom used to make soup just like that.”

Bella smiled. “Mine, too.”

“My mom’s going to love you.”

Bella’s gaze snapped up to his. “What?”

“When we get back to Fairbanks. I can’t wait to introduce you to my mom. I have a feeling she’ll want to adopt you. She’s always wanted a daughter.”

Brandon watched the myriad of emotions flit across her face. Longing, sadness, resignation.

“Well, whenever you decide to get married, then she’ll have a daughter.” She got up and took the empty dishes to the counter.

“You offering?” he asked lightly.

“Offering?” she asked, glancing back at him.

“To marry me.”

The bowls clattered into the aluminum sink. “No!”

“Damn. Thought I’d solved that problem.”

Her brows drew together, her lips pressed tight.

“You wanna get married?” he asked, his tone light.

She put a pot of water on to boil. “Are you asking?” Her voice sounded strained.

“And if I was?”

She shook her head. “I’ll never get married again. Ever. To anyone.”

“Never is a very long time. Why not?”

“I don’t like men.” She took her seat across from him. Refusing to look him in the eye, she stared out the window into the darkening twilight.

Brandon laughed. “We already know that’s not really true.”

“Then maybe I just don’t like husbands.”

“So what did he do to you?” He prayed she was finally going to open up.

Bella leaned back in the chair, crossed her arms over her chest, and met his gaze for a long, silent moment. The fire crackled in the stove, the propane burner hissed under a pot of water, and darkness settled in from the corners of the closed cabin. Only a dusky light crept in through the window.

“He didn’t do anything to me, exactly.” Her gaze flitted around the shadowy room. Then she got up, pulled the Coleman lantern from the peg near the door, and brought it to the table. She retrieved the box of kitchen matches from the countertop.

“He obviously hurt you.”

Her eyes flicked toward him as she primed the pump on the lantern. “Isn’t that why most people divorce? Someone gets hurt? Feelings get hurt? Promises go unfulfilled?”

The lantern’s soft glow filled the space between them. She pushed it to the side of the table then went back into the kitchen to retrieve the boiling water, the jar of cocoa mix, two mugs and spoons. Brandon waited until she’d poured the water and scooped heaping spoons of powder into the mugs then she retrieved the bag of marshmallows as he stirred his cocoa.

She moved with a smooth grace that made him ache. He ached from wanting her, from wanting to know her. Inside and out. Heart and soul. With every quick flick of her gaze toward him, he could see her pain. Nearly
feel
it. He’d do anything to take it from her. Relieve her of whatever burdens she carried and kept secret.

She pulled a small handful of marshmallows from the bag and plopped them into her cup. Then another handful and raised an eyebrow at him. He moved his spoon out of the way so she could put them in. She took a sip. Marshmallow cream clung to her top lip until her sweet pink tongue swiped it away. He almost groaned as want and need pounded through his veins, tightening his body.

“Who broke the promise?” he asked just before he took a sip of the rich cocoa.

“You’re just not going to drop this, are you?” she asked, irritation sparking in her eyes.

He shrugged. “I’m out here with you for another two weeks. I thought we should get to know each other better.” Reaching across the narrow table, he ran a finger over the back of her hand as she held her mug. Her gaze flitted to his hand. He turned it over, palm up, hoping she’d take it. Instead, she frowned and grabbed his wrist.

“What the hell did you do to yourself?”

Brandon looked down. His forearm was covered in small red scratches. “It’s from hauling the wood. No big deal.”

She was out of her seat again, going for the first aid kit, and Brandon rolled his eyes.

“No big deal. Do you have any idea what an infection can do? Especially out here where there are no doctors?” She was at the side of the table, pulling items out of the kit.

“Bella, sweetheart, I washed the scrapes. It’s from a tree. I’m not going to die over it.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather not take the chance. Last thing I need is a dead DEA agent on my hands when Bjorn gets back here to collect me.” She poured peroxide onto a cotton ball. “Show me your other arm.”

He laid his forearms on the table, palms up.

“Jeez. Why were you hauling wood anyway?”

The woman was a contradiction. She scolded like a schoolmarm, yet the concern was plain as day in her eyes, in the way she crinkled her brow into a frown of concentration as she tended his wounds. Wounds so small he hadn’t even noticed them. “It needed to be done. Besides, I’m not an agent anymore.”

She stopped rubbing the cotton ball over his arm and looked into his eyes. “What?”

“I quit. I gave Bjorn a letter for my mother and another for her to send to my superiors in Detroit. I resigned.”

“Why? What are you going to do now? You’ve been in law enforcement your whole life. You’re not that old.”

He chuckled. “Thanks, I think.”

Her frown deepened.

He wanted to kiss her.

“You know what I mean; you’re hardly of retirement age.”

“I’ll tell you, if you tell me,” he said softly.

She opened a tube of antibiotic ointment and began spreading it on the scratches. “Tell you what?”

Her cool, gentle fingers slid over his skin as she concentrated on his arms. She paused over his tattoo. Something about it seemed to disturb her. But that would come later. He still wanted to know how she knew about the Vipers, but first he wanted to know about her divorce.

“I’ll tell you why I quit the DEA if you tell me why you got divorced.”

She screwed the cap onto the tube of ointment, carefully arranged everything back in the first aid kit, and placed it on the shelf in the pantry. She sat back down across the table from him and lifted her cup to her lips. “You first,” she said.

“I want to settle down, get married, have kids. I don’t want to put a wife through the hell of living with a cop. I’ve seen how hard it is on wives. On mothers. Besides, I want a simpler life. Something fun. I’ve worked my butt off for the last twenty years. I want to do something for me before I’m too old or too disabled to enjoy life.” He took a sip of his cocoa and dropped his voice. “Your turn.”

When she finally raised her gaze from the half empty mug in her hands, sadness seemed to pour from her. He could see it, feel it as clear and tactile as a touch. He wanted to take her into his arms and tell her everything would be all right, that nothing could hurt her any longer. He’d never hurt her. He’d never let anyone else hurt her ever again.

“I was seventeen when I married Bartholomew. He was thirty. He wanted a family.” She shut her eyes, the memories too painful. Telling Brandon her problems hurt too much. After the first year of marriage, Bart was so single-minded about getting her pregnant that sex was nothing more than a means to an end. It had been horrible. “Two years into the marriage I found out I couldn’t give him one.”

“So the bastard left you?”

Isabella’s eyes widened at the anger in his tone. “Not at first. Though, I’m not sure that the married next-door neighbor was going to give him a child. I came home from work one night and there they were, in my bed.” She hadn’t meant to let that out. That part was too humiliating. It was all humiliating. With a shrug, she decided she might as well finish the story. “I moved in with Uncle Cameron and filed for divorce. It took a year. By the time the final papers were signed, he’d found himself a big-boobed bleach-blonde and she was six months pregnant. There. Now you know. Happy?”

She got up from the table, needing to put space between them. He was looking at her with those gorgeous eyes, making her want to crawl inside of them where it would be warm, safe, and so very perfect.