Grace Green - Forever Wife And Mother

At the top of the stairs he turned right and opened the door to the first room he came to. It was Spartan, as all the guests’ rooms were, except for the bed, which was luxuriously comfortable.

He laid her case on the luggage rack. And then crossed to the window. He paused, his long fingers curled around the edge of the heavy cotton drapes, and looked over the valley. The night was dark, but he could see dots of light marking the houses and farms farther up the river.

His gaze hardened as he fixed it on the spot where he knew the Lockhart place to be. There he could see nothing. No pinpoint, no spark of light. But any day now, as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow morning, the first of Malcolm Lockhart’s charity cases would be turning up at Holly Cottage. Some woman from the city, who would spend a couple of weeks recuperating from whatever trauma had brought her there. As soon as she left, another would arrive. And so it would go on, till after the autumn leaves had turned and winter came again to the valley.

If his gaze was hard, his heart was even harder. The Lockhart place should, by rights, belong to him. Just as it should have belonged to his father, and his father’s father before him. His father’s hatred of Malcolm Lockhart was matched only by his own. And it was a hatred that would stay with him till his dying day.

“Mr. Ryland?”

He closed the drapes brusquely before turning. Mrs. Kincaid was looking at him with a concerned expression.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “I said your name several times and you…didn’t seem to hear.”

“My mind drifted for a moment.” He strode to the bathroom door and swung it open. Everything was as it should be—spick-and-span, with fresh white towels, a basket of basic toiletries, clean glasses, a bottle of Evian.

“Breakfast’s at seven. Sharp!” He started toward the bedroom door. “I hope you’ll find the room comfortable.”

“It’s lovely,” she said. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Oh, one thing before you go…”

He turned at the door, his eyebrows raised.

“Will it disturb anyone if I have a shower? I’ve been traveling since dawn…. I’d really like to get cleaned up.”

“No problem. You won’t disturb me, I sleep like a log. And as for Will—you could drop a bomb next to the bed and you wouldn’t wake her.”

As he walked to the landing, he felt a pang of guilt. Seven o’clock was an early start for somebody as utterly exhausted as this young woman obviously was.

But he staved off the guilty twinges by reminding himself that if he hadn’t taken her in, she’d still be on the road.

And if she couldn’t manage to haul her skinny little body out of bed by seven, then she’d just have to go hungry!

CAPRICE woke next morning to the sound of a dog’s bark.

The bedroom was in darkness. She reached for her watch, peered at the luminous hands and saw that it was six-thirty. Lying back, she let her mind drift over the events of last night and grimaced as she recalled her panicky flight from Holly Cottage, scared out of her wits by nothing more than a bird—a crow?—that had tumbled down the sitting-room chimney!

She’d been appalled when she’d seen her reflection in the mirror. With her tangled hair and soot-smudged face, she’d looked like a street urchin. It was a wonder Gabe Ryland had let her through his doorway.

Gabe Ryland.

How different he was from the men in her social circle with their city suits and their GQ coiffures—men with pale smooth hands and smoother moves. Gabe Ryland was rugged and weather-beaten, with a hard, craggy face and black hair that hadn’t been cut in months. And in his sturdy jeans, hiking boots and no-nonsense plaid shirt, he’d been a walking ad for his Outward Bound business.

His hands, she remembered, were rough.

And his manners, she remembered, were rougher.

“You should find everything you need,” he’d said, and added bluntly, “if you don’t…you’ll have to make do.” Talk about uncompromising! And then, “Breakfast’s at seven sharp,” the implication being that if she turned up at one minute past, she’d have to go hungry.

And, she mused over a wide yawn, she was hungry.

She got up and padded to the window.

When she pulled back the drapes, she saw that dawn was just breaking. The eastern sky was bloodshot, and rosy light was creeping along the green valley and painting the unruffled surface of the river a glorious shade of pink.

It was going to be a perfect day.

And she just had time, she decided with a lilt of anticipation, to squeeze in a quick walk before breakfast.

“Fang, come here!”

Fang scrambled through a clump of ferns, and as he bumped against Will’s legs, she caught him by the collar. “Hush!” she whispered urgently. “Someone’s coming!”

She held her breath as she peeked out from behind the trunk of the oak tree, which was just a few yards from the fence. Cripes, if it was her dad she’d be in deep trouble. She wasn’t supposed to be on Lockhart land; he’d kill her if he knew she’d set foot on it.

He’d warned her never to cross the fence, warned her when she first became old enough to play outside alone.

“Why, Dad?” she’d asked, as they stood on their grassy slope and looked over the fence at the strip of forest that lay between the fence and the river.

“You don’t need to know why,” he’d told her. “Just remember, no trespassing on Lockhart land.”

And she’d obeyed him. For a whole month she’d done as he’d told her. But then one June evening Fang had taken off under the barbed wire fence chasing after a rabbit…and he hadn’t come back. There was a wooden stile close to the spot where he’d wriggled under. She’d perched on the top slat and waited. And waited. And waited. Not knowing what to do. And worried sick about him.

In the end, she’d gone in.

Just across the fence was a path into the forest, and she’d followed it, calling for Fang as she went. The path had soon led her to a log house, and in the garden she’d found Fang. But he wasn’t alone. He was with a lady. And the lady was petting him and cuddling him…and crying.

Will was happy to see Fang safe and sound but sad to see the lady cry. She went into the garden and told the lady who she was. She and the lady talked, and the lady—whose name was Emily—told her some secrets. When the sun went down, Emily walked through the trees with her as far as the wooden stile.

After that, Will took Fang to Holly Cottage as often as she could, but only between May and October and only when her dad was away. This was the first time ever that she’d risked going onto Lockhart land while he was home, and she really didn’t know what had brought her there today.

She hadn’t gone as far as the log house, though, because the Lockhart summer ladies didn’t start coming till the first of May, but she’d climbed over the stile and skipped down the forest path a bit with Fang.

And was on her way back for breakfast—was close enough to the stile to see it through the trees—when she’d heard someone up ahead.

Holding her breath, she peeked around the trunk of the oak tree. And her heart almost stopped when she saw a stranger on the other side of the fence, standing with one hand atop a fence post.

Fang barked.

Will got such a start she lost her grip on his collar, and he lurched from their hiding place and bounded to the fence.

Tail whisking like mad, he yelped ferociously at the stranger. She stepped back. Which made him bark even louder. On and on and on…

There was nothing for it, Will thought, frustrated, but to come out. If she didn’t, her dad might hear Fang and come to investigate.