Brenda Minton - Thanksgiving Groom

And he left her alone in a room lit with just a lantern, candles on the mantel and the firelight.

Tucker knew he should take her back to Treasure Creek at first light. If she could have walked, it would have been doable. But with her injury, they couldn’t walk it in a day.

They’d have to give her ankle time to heal. And then he’d have to take her back to civilization. He’d have to go as well. And he wasn’t ready. He didn’t know if he would ever be ready to go back.

To have it be Penelope Lear who forced him back, that made him a little itchy around the collar.

Just this past May, Tucker had said a polite “no thank you” to that offer. He had heard that Herman Lear had approached several other men, most of whom lived in Anchorage and were well connected. One of them had probably taken the offer, and that had sent her running to Treasure Creek.

A little bit of pity scolded him for being too harsh with her. No one should be married off that way, as if she were a stolen painting up for bid on the black market. There was no dignity in that kind of bartering.

He lifted the candle he’d taken from the parlor and walked down the dark hall in the direction of the kitchen. She was probably hungry as well as thirsty. From the aromas drifting down the hall, a combination of wood smoke and soup, he thought that Wilma Johnson had thought the same thing.

The kitchen was lit with lanterns and candles. Mr. Johnson, Clark was his first name, sat at the small table, a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked up from the book he was reading and smiled at Tucker.

“Found a stray?”

Tucker nodded. “Yeah, I guess I did. Her ankle is swollen and bruised. I don’t think it’s broken.”

“I have an Ace Bandage and we still have pain relievers.” Wilma dished soup into a bowl. “I hope she doesn’t mind something as simple as vegetable soup.”

“She’d better not.” Tucker grabbed the first aid kit. “She’d best be grateful.”

“She’s been nothing but polite, Tucker.” Wilma Johnson patted his arm. “I’ll take her the soup and tea. You have something to eat. It might take the snarl out of you some.”

He had to smile. “Yeah, it might. More soup, Clark?”

Clark Johnson shook his head. “I’m done. You go ahead and eat. She did a bang-up job on it.”

Tucker dished out a bowl of soup and poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the counter. He took both and sat down across from Clark. “I guess you know who she is?”

“That I do.” Clark looked up from his book, lantern light flickering between the two of them. “We’ll have to find a way to get her back to Treasure Creek. They’ll be looking for her. And besides that, a young woman like Penelope Lear can’t make it out here, living the way we’ve been living.”

“How do you propose we get her back to town?”

“You’ll have to take her.” It was said matter-of-factly, as if it would be easy to go back.

“I’m not ready to go back.”

“Neither are we. But she’s another case. She didn’t ask to be here, to be in the wilderness.”

“No, she didn’t. They’ll send search teams. I’m sure her father will have the army out if he can manage it.”

“They’ve probably searched for you, too. They haven’t found you yet.”

“I didn’t want to be found.” Because it was easier this way, hiding from people, from his pain.

Or at least he told himself he was hiding.

Tucker ate his soup, preferring to let the conversation end the way it had, with him ignoring the obvious. She would have to go back to town. She couldn’t stay here with them. And as much as he didn’t want it, too, it would affect him.

When he walked back down the hall, he heard her soft voice, telling Mrs. Johnson how she’d gotten lost, about the bear, about him rescuing her. He could imagine her eyes wide, full of excitement as she reinvented the story, making it more amazing than it had been.

The bear hadn’t been a grizzly. It hadn’t been huge. It wouldn’t have eaten her.

He walked into the room. It was dark, lit with lanterns, a few candles and the fireplace. Penelope Lear sat on the worn sofa and Wilma sat in the chair nearby.

Penelope looked up, the bowl of soup held in her hands. She smiled at him and managed to look like this was normal to her—being lost in the woods, staying in a house without electricity or running water. He’d seen her home, albeit from a distance. This was anything but normal.

Wilma tossed him the Ace Bandage. He caught it, looked at it and wasn’t at all sure what she wanted him to do.

“I don’t have a clue how to do that.” Wilma smiled sweetly.

“It just has to be tight.” He wanted to toss it back. He didn’t want to touch the foot of an heiress. He didn’t want to deal with someone who spent her time working on a tan rather than working at life.

In her defense, she wasn’t tan. Her skin was a natural creamy color, with just the barest hint of gold. She was staring at him, waiting for him to move or to say something. He’d never been at a loss for words, not once in his life.

That was his reason for becoming a lawyer. He knew how to argue, how to drive a point home. He knew how to make his case and to persuade people to understand his side of the argument.

He’d argued himself right out of his father’s life.

“Tucker?” Wilma Johnson had stood. She was holding Penelope’s empty bowl.

He shook himself from the past and looked at the long cloth bandage in his hand. In the dim light from the lantern and the warm glow of the fireplace, Penelope waited. Wilma had walked out of the room.

He pulled the chair up close and reached for her foot. She grimaced a little but didn’t complain.

“It has to be tight.” He explained. “Sorry, I’m not a doctor. My only experience with Ace Bandages is from high school basketball.”

“That’s more experience than I have.”

He wrapped the elastic bandage around her foot and ankle. It was more swollen, more purple than before. “We’re going to have to keep you off it, I think. Do you have a problem sleeping in this room? It’ll be warmer and the Johnsons are just down the hall.”

“I’m fine with that.” She looked up, blue eyes dark in the shadowy room. “What about you?”

“I’m a big boy and I’m not afraid.”

“I mean, where do you sleep?”

“Upstairs.”

“Oh.” She let out a breath and looked pretty relieved.

“There you go. It’s still early. I’ll light another lantern, and if you’d like, I can bring you a book.”

“I’d love a shower.” She glowed rosy pink and looked down, at the cup of tea she still held.

He wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. He’d traumatized her enough for one day. Instead he did his best “hoping to make you feel better about your situation” voice. “I’m afraid a shower is out.”

“Out?” She looked up. He imagined that most people would have built a shower for her if she’d looked at them like that.

“No electricity, no hot water. No running water, actually.”

“Oh.”

“I take it you hadn’t meant to rough it quite this much.”

She shrugged, “I hadn’t thought about it. But actually, I did want to rough it, Mr. Lawson. I came here to prove…”

She didn’t finish. That had him more than a little curious. It had been a long time since he’d been curious. He sat back down, ready to hear what she wanted to prove.

“Prove what?”

“Nothing.” She lifted her cup and sipped, ignoring his questioning looks. But he wasn’t about to give up.

“Oh come on, Penelope, we’re both here for reasons that the rest of the world can’t understand.”

She lowered the cup. Teeth bit into her bottom lip and she studied his face. Her eyes overflowed again. “I’m sorry about your dad.”