Like she, what,matteredto him?
See, this was what happened when she let her song lyrics actually stick around in her head.Like a lighthouse in thestorm,you were steadfast and tall. In your eyes,Ifound the place where I belong.
Oh brother. She’d been so naive.
No, she didn’t believe in true love. The guy was a cop—it stood to reason he possessed an overachieving responsibility gene. And, he had made her a promise, so calm down.
Holiday, indeed. A holiday from her common sense.
Conversation hummed in the hall, families eating at the long tables. She turned, spotted little Wren eating oatmeal, still in her pajamas, her hair a tousled mess. She sat with her father and Oliver, her father appearing tired and bedraggled.
Male voices had drifted up to her room last night, and she’d bet that a few of the men had stayed up, guarding their families.
At the serving bar between the kitchen and the great room, she helped herself to oatmeal, added maple syrup—it smelled rich and tangy, as if authentic—and headed over to sit with Donald and his family.
It occurred to her then that she hadn’t seen a wife, although the man wore a wedding ring.
“Good morning.” She swung her leg over the bench opposite the trio. “Can I sit with you?” Her ankle had healed so much overnight that she walked with barely a twinge today.
“Morning, Keely,” Donald said.
Wren grinned at her. “We’re going sledding!”
“Not yet,” her father said, but gave her a grin. “After the storm is over.”
“That sounds fun.” Yes, real maple syrup. Best oatmeal ever. “I haven’t been sledding in years. I used to go with my father, on a hill near our house.”
“Where are you from?” Donald asked.
“Minnesota. Minneapolis area. Very snowy, but not like this.”
“It’s hard to beat an Alaskan blizzard.” He picked up his coffee. “And it’s just getting started. Hey, Dawson.”
She looked up, and Dawson walked over, also carrying a mug of coffee. He appeared a little rough today, as if he might not have slept, his dark hair rucked up, a thicker scruff of whiskers. He wore the same clothes as yesterday but smelled as if he’d just come in from the weather, a sort of windblown freshness on him.
Stop.
“Hey,” he greeted her, then Donald.
Her stupid heart kicked up a little.Calm down,sheesh.Her heart clearly thought she’d landed in some Alaskan Hallmark movie. Did it not remember the crash, the running, the shooting, theterror?
She blamed the snow, the crackling fire, and the fact that the man wore flannel.
“Did you go out to check the machine shed?” Donald asked him.
“Yeah. With Griffin and a couple of the guys. Caspian needed some outside time.” He stepped over the bench, glanced at her. “Is this seat taken?”
“Saved for you.”What—? For the love!
He raised an eyebrow, and she turned back to her oatmeal. He climbed in next to her. Smelled of pine.Whatever!
“So, what’s the verdict?” Donald asked.
Dawson sipped his coffee. “There are five snow machines, and all of them have been tampered with. Spark plug wires pulled,fuel lines ripped out. All repairable, but it’ll have to be after the storm, when we can get some supplies in.”
“We were lucky. And we still have the horses.” Donald sighed.
Thehorses? Shewasliving an episode ofLittle House onthe Prairie.
