Elizabeth August - The Bride's Second Thought

“Nice place,” she addressed the wolf as she descended to the main floor. She’d been aware that the animal’s gaze had never left her.

He made no response.

Her body finally warming, the second sweater she was wearing was beginning to feel unnecessary. Stripping it off, she settled onto the couch. But she didn’t relax. Guilt for having allowed her rescuer to again go out in the storm plagued her. She told herself that he was obviously used to this kind of weather. Still, her anxiousness increased. The wind was blowing even more forcefully now, producing an angry wrathlike howl. Crossing to the window, she peered out at the night. The snow was falling so thickly, she could barely see beyond the rail of the roofed porch.

“He’ll be all right,” she said aloud, using the sound of her voice to bolster her courage. Glancing toward the wolf, she saw him continuing to watch her. “Well, I told him he didn’t have to go out,” she said in her defense.

Suddenly the wolf was on its feet, and the fear that it had decided she wasn’t a friend caused her legs to weaken. Then, above the storm, she heard the sound of a motor. A moment later she saw a faint light and breathed a sigh of relief.

She opened the door when the man reached the porch. “Thanks,” she said as he entered and set her suitcase and overnight bag on the floor, then removed his coat,

Sitting down in a nearby chair, Peter concentrated on taking off his boots. “You’re welcome.”

The relief she’d been feeling proved fleeting. Beneath his heavy coat, her rescuer was wearing a heavy red plaid flannel shirt over a white turtleneck. Despite the layering, she could see his shoulders were broad, and as he bent to unlace his boots, there was no evidence of a potbelly getting in his way. His jeans fit snugly around muscular thighs, and she guessed that with his boots off he’d stand a little over six feet tall.

She placed his age somewhere in the early- to mid-thirties. His thick, dark brown hair was shaggy around the ears and hung to his collar in the back. As for his face, when he’d looked up at her, the blueness of his eyes had again grabbed and held her attention. Now, however, she noted that his nose was average and his cheekbones high. Beneath the heavy beard and mustache, she guessed he probably had a lantern jaw. Of course, she could be entirely wrong. Maybe he’d grown the beard to cover a weak chin. That, however, would be the only weak thing about him, she thought as he put his boots aside and rose.

She’d been concentrating on her inspection of him in an attempt to ignore the growing fear within her. But she could ignore it no longer. She was alone in an isolated cabin, in the midst of a blizzard, with a man she didn’t know and a wolf who didn’t seem all that friendly.

He took a step toward her, and she took a step back.

Peter frowned patronizingly. “Don’t worry. I’m not a crazed backwoodsman who hasn’t seen a woman in years. You don’t have anything to fear from me.”

She knew she didn’t look her best. Her short brown hair was a wet stringy mess of curls. Her makeupless face was pale and drawn from strain causing her best feature—her dark brown eyes—to look sunken and overly large. Even at her best she was not a raving beauty, but she was pleasant enough looking. This man, however, made her feel like one of Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters. And I should be glad, she told herself, quickly overcoming the sting of insult as she realized his disinterest was the key to her safety. “I’m glad to hear that.” Her manner becoming businesslike, she held out her hand. “I’m Ellen Reese and I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“Peter Whitley,” he replied, accepting the handshake.

Ellen had shaken hands with a great many men, but never had she been so aware of the contact. Her first impression was strength, then came the roughness of his work-callused palms. But the most disconcerting was the warmth. His hand was still cold from his recent trip outside, and yet a heat. raced up her arm. Breaking the contact swiftly, she again took a step back.

His impatient frown returned. “You can have the bedroom. I’ll take the loft.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” she said, again feeling like an unwelcome intruder.

In spite of her bravado, Peter sensed her continued fear. “The bedroom door has a lock on it. I figure you’ll feel safer in there. I wouldn’t want to have you lying awake all night worrying.”

She was about to say she wouldn’t worry, but the words died in her throat. He sounded honestly disinterested in her, but recent events warned her to distrust what any man said. “Thanks.” Not wanting to admit that he was the entire reason she wanted the locked door, she added, “I’m not so sure your friend’s wolf likes me.”

Peter had to admit the animal could be intimidating. He recalled the first evening he’d spent in the wolf’s company. No human had ever studied him so thoroughly. “He takes his time to decide how he feels about people. But he won’t hurt you. He’ll accept my decision to allow you to stay with us.”

“That’s encouraging,” she said dryly, letting her tone tell him she wasn’t so certain she should take his word for that. “Does he have a name?”

“Bane.” The animal had risen and was now standing by Peter. He looked up when his name was mentioned, and Peter petted him fondly. “Jack Greenriver, the owner of this cabin, found him when he was a pup. He was wandering around the woods alone, nearly starved to death. Jack figured his mother had been killed by a mountain lion or hunters. He never found her den or the rest of her brood. He brought Bane home and nursed him back to health with the intention of releasing him into the wild once he was strong enough. Jack even taught Bane how to hunt so that he could survive on his own, and he never gave him a name, just called him wolf. But when he tried to send him back into the woods, Bane continued to hang around the cabin. That’s when Jack started referring to him as the Bane of his existence. But the truth is, he’d grown as fond of Bane as Bane had of him, so they formed what Jack likes to refer to as an alliance, and Bane remained.”

Peter gave the wolf’s head a playful rub. “It’s Bane you owe your life to. He’s the one who realized someone had turned into the drive and insisted on going out to investigate. When I heard him howling, I knew something was wrong. Then I heard you honking.”

“Thanks,” she addressed the wolf.

He tilted his head, and she had the feeling he was studying her, but he made no move toward her. After a moment he returned to his place by the hearth and, laying his head on his paws, closed his eyes as if to say he was turning over the guarding of the cabin to Peter.

Peter picked up her suitcase and overnight bag and carried them into the bedroom. Returning to the living area, he headed to the refrigerator. “How about some dinner? I was just getting ready to make corn bread and heat up some of the chili I made yesterday,” he offered.

“Sounds good,” she replied, suddenly realizing how hungry she was. “What can I do to help?”

Keep your distance, was the response that flashed through Peter’s mind. Like he’d told her, he wasn’t a crazed backwoodsman, but he was only human, and she filled out that sweater and those jeans in all the right spots. “I can handle getting dinner on the table on my own. Just make yourself comfortable.” He motioned toward the study door. “There’s a phone in there. Feel free to make a call and let whoever is waiting for you know you’re going to be delayed. If they’re from around here, just tell them you’re at Jack Greenriver’s place. If not, say you’re between Colebrook and West Stewardtown.”

“No one is expecting me.” The minute the words were out she regretted them. Silently she berated herself for not making him think someone would be keeping an eye out for her. She studied his face for any clue that she’d made a gigantic mistake. What she saw was disbelief.