Three Times A Bride. Catherine Spencer

of the coffee.

      She was only partially thawed when footsteps clumped up the steps and a fist banged on the door. It was Arne Jensen, the Drakes’s nearest neighbor and the only year-round resident of the area. A tall, spare man in his late fifties who lived alone and socialized little, his sole concession to modern amenities was the telephone he’d had installed in his A-Frame cabin three winters before.

      “Oh, ja, you got here then,” he declared, his singsong Scandinavian accent as pronounced as the day he’d first come to North America.“I wanted to make sure.”

      Georgia smiled for what seemed like the first time in days.“I might have known you’re the one I have to thank for all this, Arne. How did you know to expect me?”

      “Mr. Drake, he phoned late this afternoon. Wanted me to check up and see that you had everything you need.”

      “That was thoughtful of him, and I do, thanks.”

      “Good. Then I will go. The weather is getting worse. We’re in for a very big storm tonight.”

      He was right. In the last half hour, the wind had risen to a mournful howl, a fitting accompaniment for Georgia’s mood. How could she jeopardize her future with Steven like this, she wondered, closing the door on Arne. What perverse streak of madness had brought her up here, away from a man who loved her enough to make sure she was safe and comfortable, even when she was running away from him?