A Promise of Fireflies (31 page)

“Apollo has a faint star on his forehead. Windsor is jet black.”

“And the grays? What are their names?”

“Sterling has knee-high dark gray socks and Lancelot—Lance—has more silver in his mane and tail.”

“I see. I guess,” she said, bending to check Sterling’s legs for the so-called socks, but rose abruptly at the gratuitous display of equine affection she’d nearly come face to face with.

A deep, rumbling laugh came from the next stall as Logan tossed flakes of alfalfa into the cribs.

“Smart-ass,” she mumbled. Sterling snorted in a spray of alfalfa and horse snot. “That goes for you too!”

Windsor’s tail swished from side to side, dislodging the ghosts of summer flies as Logan threw the last flakes into the cribs. He moved beside her and leaned against the stall. “They’re actually quite easy to tell apart.”

“How—without inspecting their, umm…anatomy?” An embarrassing tickle crawled up her neck.

“Read their nametags,” he chuckled, “on the stalls.”

He was smirking.
“Smart-ass,” she sassed, this time loud enough that Apollo raised his head and bobbed it in what was surely an acknowledgement of the impish sense of humor.

Logan laughed openly, a deep, infectious timbre that accentuated the lines around his eyes, but the distance buried there refused to give way to complete joy. “I’ve been called worse.”

Ryleigh turned and leaned against the stall, the spirited gift of his laughter still humming inside her. “Justifiably so.”

Bits of chaff glinted in the dusty light as Logan brushed loose hay from his hands, the distance between them marked only by the brushing of fabric against fabric. She shivered, an involuntary reaction to the close proximity of this intriguing man.

“You’re shivering.” He removed his scarf, wrapped it around her neck, and held the ends.

“I don’t know why I should be,” she said. “It’s not cold in here.”

The inviting half-smile preceded a deep chuckle that tingled her flesh. A rich line framed his mouth on one side, a tenacious punctuation of what he kept hidden there.

“I find it rather warm myself,” he said, and without warning, twined the scarf around his hands and pulled her against him.

Gentle eyes cradled hers in a tentative embrace, the power lurking there an anchor to restless avidity, and though his smile had dimmed, his face bore an inward tenderness ripe with compassion. He took her face in the broad span of both hands and brought his face to meet hers. He touched his lips to hers and following the absence of reservation, he kissed her.

His tongue met hers in an invitation as patient as it was longing, and then he deepened the kiss so completely and with such powerful gentleness, her body, her mind, and her resistance failed completely.

Logan dipped his forehead against hers. “I don’t want to apologize this time, Cabin Number Three,” he whispered. “But I will.”

A rueful smile disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

Run.

A mirror reflection of her thoughts.

Stay.

A labyrinth of mixed emotions jammed inside her, clogging any rational course of escape.

Think.

She was powerless to move and as resignation set in, she allowed herself to let go, to be immersed in the solidity of his embrace. “Please don’t apologize.” She searched his discriminating features. For what? Answers? Answers to questions she didn’t know how to voice. “Logan, I—”

“You’re shivering. It’s time to head back.”

Ryleigh’s teeth chattered, but she wasn’t cold. Every ounce of her bathed in the steady flame of his warmth.

Obscured by the storm, the sun slipped below the mountains and dusk settled over Fall River Valley. Snow continued to fall, covering their tracks and concealing secrets. The lampposts sparked to life and snowflakes danced in the amber wake of light. No, she wasn’t cold. A spark had kindled a sense of renewal in the aftermath of a malignant year.

On the return drive to Ryleigh’s cabin, Logan wanted to believe she was holding on a little tighter. Compelled to free her of the awkward predicament in the snow, he found himself unable to pull away from the intensity that stared back at him over the faint suggestion of freckles scattered under extraordinary green eyes. The tethers that bound him had fallen victim to her infectious smile and warm, delightful laughter. Cheeks reddened from the cold and damp, errant strands of hair the color of caramel that peeked from beneath a knit cap had been more breathtaking nestled against the snow than any expanse of wilderness landscape. A December rose in bloom. A prism of colorful laughter. A sea of churning waves.

The wind numbed his face, but the whole of her had penetrated an invisible barrier—a safeguard nothing or no one in three years had come close to breaching.

An answer to a prayer.

One he hadn’t asked for.

Something shifted in his memory and his throat tightened around some abstract thought he failed to drag from the recesses of a careless mind.

Or one he refused to expose.

THE LAPTOP SAT
idle on her lap. The cursor blinked, but didn’t move. Concentration was useless. Gripped by the hypnotic trance of falling snow, Ryleigh stared out the window of her cabin confused and uneasy. The whisper of his touch lingered across her lips. Her head swam. The story in front of her had a tidy ending. But her story was chaotic. And messy.

Outside, snow fell in downy feathers, swallowed by the river and designing white top hats on the boulders lining the riverbank. Lost in thought, she barely heard the knock. She padded across the oak floor and peeked through the tiny peephole that turned humans into comically distorted aliens and saw nothing.

She took a useless swipe at the peephole. “Who’s there?”

“I come bearing gifts.”

She released the deadbolt and opened the door to Logan wiping the frozen peephole with a gloved finger. Snow dappled his ski bibs and settled on wet curls peeking from under a knit hat.

She shifted her weight. “You have a remarkable talent for scaring me,” she said, the cold draft raising the hair on her arms in a ruffle of gooseflesh.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said and dusted the snow from his shoulders, “but I assumed you’d know who it was.”

“I wasn’t expecting anyone.” She caught herself staring and quickly looked away.

“I brought the Arctic Cat,” he said. “It’s not exactly quiet.”

“I was working. I barely heard the knock.” Who was she kidding? She cleared her throat. “But why are you here?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you, but with the storm in full swing it would be difficult for our guest to venture to the dining room, so I brought room service,” he said, holding up an insulated food carrier.

Momentarily stunned, all she could do was stare.

“I’ll leave the food,” Logan said, turning toward the door, “so you can return to your work.”

“Don’t go,” she replied so quickly she surprised herself. And from the look on his face, it surprised him too. “Please, come in.”

Logan stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and removed his hat with a shower of melted snow. “Max, our chef, is staying through the storm. I don’t know what he’s prepared us, but it’s hot and he hasn’t disappointed me yet.”

“Us?”

“Except for a skeleton staff, you and I are the only ones who remained behind.”

Ryleigh set the carrier on the counter, the spicy balm of ginger and red peppers enticing as she removed the contents, the flush from his lingering gaze on her shoulders more pleasant than the fingers of heat from the fire. “Logan,” she said, turning to face him.

“It’s okay.” He turned toward the door. “I wanted to make sure you had everything you need before I go.”

“Please stay,” she said, splaying her fingers. “Have dinner with me.”

A smile matured across his face. “I’d be honored.” He unzipped the front and legs of the ski bibs, muscled limbs tightening and relaxing as he stepped free.

The routine caused a pleasant tingle across her skin as she scanned his body, his jeans faded and worn smooth in all the places that fit him snugly. Turning away, she rubbed the back of her neck to choke the rising heat. “Hang the bibs, please. I wouldn’t want the owner upset over water spots on the wood floors.”

“You wouldn’t want to cross him.”

“And why is that?” she asked with a deliberate air of cynicism.

“I understand he’s a smart-ass.”

“Rumors precede him.”

“First impressions based on rumor can be deceiving.”

“I base my impressions solely on firsthand knowledge.”

A flicker of humor crossed his face as she motioned for him to sit.

They talked through the meal, something Ryleigh hadn’t done in an exceedingly long time. Prior to his liaison with Della, conversations with Chandler were scarce and the silence between them had risen to a deafening roar.

Keeping the conversation light, Logan mentioned how Wentworth-Cavanaugh had taken mediocre properties and transformed them into posh resorts, though he wasn’t quite sure how it happened with the state of the economy. His father had been the pillar of the company with a shrewd mind for business, but an innocuous patriarch when it came to family. Logan spoke with undiluted pride about his daughters, Sophie and Abbey, now grown and gone, and how Sophie was to be married soon and Abbey would step into the family business after college. It was evident he cherished his mother and how it was her family’s money—the Wentworths’—that started them in business. But his eyes confessed the softer side of his story—the admiration and abiding love he felt for his family.

Digesting every detail, Ryleigh considered how desperately she missed her mother and father, and in increasing measures the soldier who had given her life. As for her twin, she knew why she felt an immeasurable piece of her had been missing—it was the idea of family and the convoluted concept that fabricated hers—as she listened to Logan speak effortlessly of his. But he made no mention of a wife, or in her case, an ex.

“They’re in their sixties now. I took the reins three years ago after…”

She studied the strong lines of a face turned suddenly pale under the dark smudge of an evening beard. “What happened three years ago?”

Logan lowered his eyes as if to break the connection and keep her from further inquiry. He leaned into his chair and an air of contemplation swept over his face. “Enough about me, I want to hear about you.” A smile that failed to reach his eyes softened the traces of apprehension. “Your turn to share.”

Ryleigh spoke warmly of Natalie, her childhood friend, confidante and savior, and sister she never had. She poked fun at her boss’ pompousness, and he laughed openly when she told him about Kingsley—“Named after the wizard in
Harry Potter
, no doubt,” he’d said. And he’d been right, though Kingsley behaved more like Garfield. But mostly she spoke proudly of Evan and how it killed her to have him so far away, of his uncanny ability with words, and his internship in California, purposely steering clear of any mention of Chandler.

“I miss him.”

Logan’s nod was one of complete understanding.

“More than I ever imagined. You must miss your daughters as much as I miss my son.”

“I do.” He didn’t look up. “And what of Evan’s father? You’ve never mentioned him.”

The words stuck in her throat. “No, I haven’t.”

“You’re not married.”

“How do you know?” she asked, forcing herself to swallow the inevitable topic. “Maybe I’m the type who enjoys a weekend fling.”

FROM YEARS OF
trained experience, Logan noticed the momentary look of disquiet—an instant of recall maybe—that passed across her face. Instinct threatened to take over, the need to rescue, to protect. A somber bubble surrounded her and he wanted to break through the barrier and know her, to know the pieces she’d left behind and rescue her from whatever poison coursed through her veins. Foolish and nowhere near appropriate, he quickly dismissed the thoughts, his conscience pressing him to leave before things could progress any further. Caught in a vicious crossfire, he desperately wanted to stay—and urgently needed to leave.