Grace Green - Forever Wife And Mother

Fang heard it first.

Gabe was waiting at the top of the lodge steps for the mutt to do his bedtime business and emerge from the forest when the animal gave a sharp warning bark.

As the sound faded, Gabe heard the throb of a fast-approaching engine. Seconds later, he saw the glare of headlights, and a car roared into the clearing.

Tensing, he drew his hands from the pockets of his jeans. Strangers in the night. Nowadays, one couldn’t be too careful.

As the car slammed to a skidding halt a few yards from the lodge steps, Fang rocketed over to the vehicle, barking wildly while dancing around it in a frenzy of excitement.

“Fang!” Gabe yelled. “Come here!”

Still yelping shrilly, the dog obeyed, hopping up the steps to take his stance beside his master.

Gabe snapped his fingers. “Quiet!”

After a low protesting growl, Fang became silent.

The powerful light above the lodge’s entrance beamed onto the car. It was a Honda Civic, and only one person was in it. Warily, Gabe watched the driver climb out and felt his tension ease when he saw the intruder was a female—a slight, petite figure in jeans and a dark shirt. The woman paused, her hands cupped at her brow to shield her eyes from the light, and then walked hesitantly forward.

She stopped at the foot of the stairs, and with her face shadowed by her hands, she looked at him.

“I know it’s late,” she said. “But can you give me a room for the night?”

“Sorry.” Her hair, he saw, was fair—and wildly disheveled, which struck him as odd, because there wasn’t even the slightest breeze. But maybe the storm-swept look was in…along with the black feathers adorning her tousled coiffure. As far as he was concerned, whichever designer had decreed feathers-in-the-hair this season had to be cuckoo himself. “Didn’t you read the sign on the highway? We’re not open for another couple of weeks.”

“Oh, dear.” She gave a shaky sigh. “Where’s the nearest motel?”

“Your best bet’s Cedarville. That’s about an hour’s drive—”

He broke off as she swayed.

He frowned. “You okay?”

No response. She stood there, looking dazed and boneless as a puppet. And then she crumpled.

Good grief! He lunged down the steps and caught her just before she hit the gravel.

Sweeping her up in his arms, he glowered at her—at her feather-strewn hair, her closed eyelids, her face—which was deathly pale except for a few dirty smears.

“Hey,” he growled, giving her a brisk shake. “Wake up. You can’t sleep here. We’re closed!”

No response.

He hesitated and dithered and swithered and then finally wheeled around and carted the stranger up the steps, all the while muttering words under his breath that he’d never have used in front of Will.

As he went inside, Fang took off for their private quarters to sleep in Will’s room, as he always did.

Kicking the door shut with his heel, Gabe walked across the foyer and into the public lounge. He flicked on a light, crossed to the nearest sofa and deposited the woman on it.

Then he crossed to the bar and poured a tot of brandy into a glass before returning to the sofa. He tilted the stranger’s head, poured a little brandy into her mouth. She swallowed, coughed, choked and then with a sputter shook her head and slowly raised her eyelids.

She looked at him. Her eyes were wide-spaced, long-lashed and smoky gray. They had a blank expression.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice husky.

“You passed out.”

She blinked. “I did? Where?”

“At the lodge’s front entrance.”

She looked blank for a few seconds longer, and then she said, “Ah, I remember now.” Her lips twisted in a wry smile. “I guess I don’t react well to rejection!”

“It’s to be hoped you aren’t faced with it too often,” he said dryly. “Falling down can be hazardous to your health.”

“Thanks,” she said. “But I’m fine now.”

She didn’t look fine. She looked all in. And not merely tired. There was a bone-deep weariness about her and an aching sadness in her eyes that—if she had been a part of his life—would have worried him. Well, she wasn’t a part of his life, so he needn’t spend one second fretting about her. In fact, the sooner he got rid of her the better.

She struggled to a sitting position. “I’m sorry to be such a bother.” Dragging a hand through her hair, she dislodged one of the black feathers, and it clung to her knuckles. When she saw it, she flicked it off with a shocked sound. Horrified, she said, “Where did that come from?” It fluttered to the carpet.

Gabe plucked it up and got to his feet. “From your hair. Don’t worry, the others are still there.”

“The others?” Lurching off the sofa, she flicked her fingers frantically through her hair. He noticed the gleam of a gold wedding band on her ring finger. “Where?”

“Stand still.” So the feathers weren’t a fashion statement. Then where the dickens had they come from? He picked out the remaining few feathers. “There.” He held them in his palm. “All present and accounted for.”

She made a grimace of distaste.

He strolled to the hearth and let the feathers drift into a trash can. As he brushed his fingers together, he heard her murmur something that sounded like, “Must have been a bird.”

“Mmm?” He turned, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, nothing. Thank you for the brandy, but I’d better be getting along now. Could you give me directions to Cedarville? And if you know the name of a motel there, perhaps you could let me use your phone so I can call ahead.”

He opened his mouth to say, sure, she could use his phone. And then he shut it again. This woman was in no condition to drive. It would be on his head if he let her go and she passed out again and ended up in the river.

He heaved out an I can’t believe I’m doing this sigh and said, “You can stay here tonight.”

Her gray eyes widened, and she stared at him as if she couldn’t believe it, either. Then she smiled, a smile that lit up her grimy face and made her look like an apprentice chimney sweep who’d been given the day off. “Really? Oh, I do appreciate your kindness.” She offered her right hand and said, somewhat shyly, “I’m Caprice Kincaid.”

“Gabe Ryland.” Her fingers were fine-boned, the skin incredibly smooth. “At your service. So, Mrs. Kincaid, do you have an overnight bag?”

“Yes, it’s in the—oh!” She stopped short, looking embarrassed. “I, um, no, I have a case—it’s in the trunk. I’ll go out for it—”

“I’ll get it.”

“Oh. Thanks. You’ll find my key in the ignition. Could you bring in my purse, too, please? I left it on the passenger seat.”

“Will do.”

When he came back, she was looking at his wall of framed photos adjacent to the bar—photographs he’d taken over the years, candid shots of his well-heeled guests on the mountains, on the river, in the wilderness.

She turned to him. “What kind of resort do you run? It’s obviously not geared to couch potatoes!”

“I run a ski school in winter, and in summer I take parties white-water rafting, rock climbing, that sort of thing. Outward Bound,” he added with a sardonic smile, “meets ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”’

“So you’re in-between times at present?”

“Yeah. We open again in May.” He led her out of the lounge and to the stairs, where he paused. Indicating a passage to his left, he said, “Our private quarters are through there, but I’ll put you on the first floor. All the guest rooms have en suite bathrooms. You should find everything you need. If you don’t—” he shrugged and looked at her over his shoulder as he ascended the stairs ahead of her “—you’ll have to make do.” He yawned. “I’m going to bed myself now.”