Wolfe Wedding. Joan Hohl

gift she had received over a month ago from her parents, who were spending a year in France, both working and having a grand time, while her father set up international offices there for his business firm.

      The reason Sandra had never worn the outfit was that there had never been an occasion suitable for her to do so. The set was too darn alluring for just any old gathering of friends.

      Fashioned of sand-washed silk in shimmering swirls of fuchsia, orange and mint green, the outfit consisted of a voluminous-sleeved poet-style shirt and a belted, full-flowing skirt.

      Viewed on a padded clothes hanger, the ensemble appeared innocent enough. But, upon trying it on for fit, Sandra had been mildly shocked by the appearance she presented in it.

      The first button on the shirt was placed at midchest, a plunging vee revealing the cleavage of her high, fully rounded breasts. And, although there was an abundance of material to the skirt, when she moved, it swirled around her long legs, the clinging silk caressing every curve from her waist to her ankles.

      At the time, Sandra had stared at her mirrored image in wide-eyed amazement, deciding on the spot that the outfit was too blatantly sexy for just any casual get-together. It was definitely for something special.

      An impish glow sparkled in her dark eyes now as a thought flashed through her mind.

      The Lone Wolfe was someone special. And being with him would most definitely be special.

      Sandra carefully folded the two pieces and tucked themr into the case.

      

       How much farther could it possibly be?

      Sandra frowned as she maneuvered her one-yearold front-wheel-drive compact around yet another sharp bend in the narrow, rutted, mud-and-slushcovered dirt road. Although spring had arrived at the lower elevations, shallow mounds of snow still lay in patches on the ground and beneath the trees in the foothills of the mountain range northwest of Denver.

      A quick glance at the dashboard clock told her that thirty-odd minutes had elapsed since she had made the turn off the major highway indicated in the directions Barbara had written down for her.

      By Sandra’s reckoning, she should soon be seeing the signpost indicating the private road leading to the cabin. Even though she knew what to expect, she laughed aloud upon sighting the sign with the words Escape Hatch printed in bold letters on it.

      The private driveway leading to the cabin was in worse condition than the dirt road, the slush concealing potholes that caught her unawares and caused the vehicle to lurch from side to side.

      Sandra heaved a deep sigh of relief when the cabin came into view around a gentle curve in the road.

      Seemingly built into the side of the hill, the log cabin looked as if it belonged there, nestled in amid the tall pines. A broad porch fronted the cabin. A wide window overlooked the porch and the valley beyond.

      Anxious to see the inside of the place, Sandra stepped from the vehicle and tramped through the diminishing snow cover to the three broad steps leading up to the porch. The sunshine was warm on her shoulders, and turned the snow to mush beneath her hiking boots.

      Around the base of the cabin, yellow and white jonquils raised their bright faces to the spring sunlight, while at the base of the stalks, shoots of delicate green grasses poked through the melting snow.

      Smiling at the harbingers of spring, Sandra mounted the stairs to the porch and strode to the front door, key at the ready. Unlocking the door, she turned the knob, pushed open the door, stepped inside, and came to an abrupt halt, a soft “Oh…” whispering through her parted lips.

      The cabin was everything she had dared to hope for, and more. Barbara had warned that the place was rustic, and it was. And yet the decorative touches—a flower-bedecked, deep-cushioned sofa and two matching chairs, sun yellow curtains, and a large rug braided in colors harmonizing with those in the furniture and the curtains—gave the place a snug, homey warmth, even though the still air inside felt at least ten degrees colder than the spring-washed air outside.

      Sandra longed to investigate, but, deciding to deal with first things first, went directly to the thermostat to activate the heater, which, Barbara had assured her, had a full supply of fuel. Hearing the heater kick on, she turned and retraced her steps outside to collect her gear and the groceries she had purchased before leaving the city.

      In all, four trips were required from the cabin to the vehicle, and Sandra was panting for breath by the time she set the last two bags of groceries on the butcher-block table in the small kitchen.

      Whew! Was she getting old—or was she just terribly out of shape?

      Pausing to catch her breath, she ran a slow, comprehensive look over the room. Her perusal banished consideration of encroaching age and deteriorating physical condition. A smile of satisfaction tilted her lips at what she observed.

      Though small, the kitchen was compact, every inch of space wisely utilized, with fitted cabinets above and below the sink, and a small electric range and refrigerator. A full-size microwave oven was tucked into a corner of the countertop, and next to it sat the latest in automatic coffeemakers. A small, uncurtained window above the sink looked out over a smaller replica of the front porch, and the stately pines dotting the gentle incline of the foothills. A bottled-gas-fired grill stood on the wood-railed porch. Its domed lid wore a thin layer of snow.

      Hmm. Sandra’s mouth watered as she envisioned the steaks she’d bought, sizzling to a perfect medium-rare on the grill. Thinking of the steaks brought awareness of place and time—and it was time to put the food away, unpack her cases and familiarize herself with the place that would be her home for several weeks.

      But first, she could do with a cup of coffee.

      Humming softly, she washed the glass pot, then dug out of a stuffed-full grocery bag one of the cans of French-roast coffee she had bought. While the aromatic stream of dark liquid trickled into the pot, she loaded perishable foods—meat, cheese, eggs, milk, and fresh vegetables and fruits—into the fridge. Onto the bottom shelf she slid the two bottles of wine, one white, one red, that she had thought to pick up. The dried and canned articles went into the overhead cabinets.

      When the foodstuffs were stashed away, Sandra poured coffee into a rainbow-decorated ceramic mug and carried it into the cabin’s single bedroom, where she had earlier dumped her suitcase and carryon, and the shopping bag into which she had jammed sheets and towels.

      Measuring approximately twelve feet by fourteen, the room was far from spacious. And yet the sparse furnishings, a double bed, a small nightstand and one standard-size chest of drawers, lent the illusion of roominess.

      Another brightly colored braided rug covered most of the pine board floor. As in the living room, the colors in the rug were picked up in the bedspread and curtains at the room’s two windows, one of which faced the north side of the cabin, the other the mountains to the rear.

      All in all, not bad, Sandra decided, hefting the large suitcase onto the bed, then plopping onto the mattress and bouncing to test the resiliency of the springs.

      It would do quite adequately, she thought, shivering in response to the thrill of anticipation that scurried up her back as an image of Cameron Wolfe filled her mind, along with the realization of what the bed would be used for, besides sleeping.

      The temptation was overwhelming to forget every other concern and to settle back, wallowing in the comfort of the mattress. and exciting speculation.

      But, being disciplined and responsible, Sandra resisted the temptation. With an unconscious sigh of longing, she heaved herself from the bed.

      It was now midafternoon on Thursday, and there was work to be done before Cameron’s scheduled arrival. He had told her to expect him sometime around noon, give or take an hour or so, on Saturday.

      Sandra flicked the clasps on the large suitcase and flipped it open. She had to get her tush in gear. She had to unpack, put away her clothes, make up the bed with her own sheets. And then start scrubbing.