The Borrowed Bride. Susan Wiggs

Liquid sloshed out of the can, but she didn’t seem to notice.

      “There’s a radio for emergencies, but the phone lines don’t come up this far, and it’s too remote for cellular.”

      She sagged against the back of an armchair. “Whatever happened to the city boy? Didn’t you find fame and fortune with the Urban Natives?”

      “Depends on your standards for fame and fortune. The band did okay. The last album went gold, and it got me into this place.”

      “I noticed the name of this place on the door—The Tomunwethla Lodge.” She brushed her hand over a woven wicker bean jar on a side table. “What does that mean?”

      Ah, she had trained herself well. He had always hoped she would acknowledge the past, maybe even come to cherish it as he did. But given Isabel’s background, that wasn’t likely.

      “Cloud Dancer Lodge,” he said. “‘Cloud Dancer’ is a song I once wrote. A really bad, crying-in-your-beer song. Probably the most popular thing I ever did.”

      Isabel rose and stood on a braided oval rug in front of the massive hearth. “So what’s the point?”

      “Of the song?”

      “Of everything.”

      He set down his beer and took her hand, leading her to the huge sofa facing the fireplace. A moose head with baleful glass eyes stared down at them.

      “The point of everything,” he echoed, blowing out his breath. He tried another grin on her, but she remained solemn. “Lady, you asked a mouthful.” He half turned, hooking a booted foot over his knee. God, he wanted to touch her, really touch her, to wake up the passion he knew was only sleeping inside her. But the way she was looking at the moment, he was afraid she might shatter.

      Just as she had five years ago.

      “First, my granddad got sick,” Dan said after a moment. “I moved to the town of Thelma to help look after him. And damned if I didn’t start to like it out here again.” He linked his hands behind his head and stretched out his legs. “Used to be, I couldn’t wait to get away from the rez, from the country.” Through half-lidded eyes, he watched her for a reaction. There was none. If anything, she seemed even more subdued. More withdrawn.

      Well, what did you expect, Black Horse?

      “My granddad died.”

      “Dan, I’m sorry.”

      “He was eighty-three. He left me a grant of land that’s tied to a treaty with the government dating back to the 1880s. Right around the time of his death, a timber company approached the tribal council, wanting to make a deal on clear-cutting.”

      “But this area is sacred ground,” she blurted out. Then she looked surprised at herself and fell silent.

      “Exactly,” he said. “But the deal was real tempting. When you don’t know where your next meal’s coming from, lunch with a grizzly bear looks pretty appetizing.”

      That coaxed an extremely small smile from her.

      “So I did some research. The lands are protected, but the council was leaning toward the timber company. I made a counteroffer. Got a special grant to develop a recreational area, sank everything I had into it and built this place. Just put the finishing touches on it a week ago.”

      “It looks as if it’s been here forever,” she said. “The lodge is really beautiful, Dan.”

      “It’s supposed to have that rustic flavor.” Flipping his wrist outward, he did a perfect imitation of Andy, the band’s former keyboard player, who had switched careers to interior design. “Without skimping on creature comforts.”

      Isabel laughed softly. The sound gripped Dan where he felt it the most—in his heart.

      “So that’s the short version,” he said. “If this is a success, I could open lodges in Alaska, maybe Belize or Tahiti in the winter—”

      “Why?” Her question was sharp and humorless.

      “Because I know what I’m doing.” Sort of. “Somebody else would come in and build a theme park. Probably stick totem poles up everywhere and sell shaman baskets for yard ornaments. I wanted something better. I wanted to do it right.”

      She stood and crossed the room, inspecting a cloth wall hanging and the tuber mask beside it. “This is just right. Really.” Even as his chest filled with pride, she paused. Maybe she was beginning to unbend a little. “I take that back. The snowshoes hanging on the wall are marginal. And the antler ottoman has got to go.”

      “It’s my favorite piece of furniture.”

      She sat back down on the sofa. “So now I know why you’re here. Why am I here?”

      He paused. “A picture’s worth a thousand words?” he offered.

      “Fine. I came. I saw. I’m impressed. Now take me back to the city.”

      “I can’t exactly do that,” he said in a soft, slow voice.

      “What do you mean?”

      “We have a lot to talk about. I need time.”

      She shot up again. “I don’t have time. I’m getting married exactly one week from today. I have to meet with a caterer. A florist. A dressmaker. Photographer, videographer—” She counted them off on her fingers and turned on him in frustration. The pale skirt floated around her slim legs, and for a moment, she looked as exotic as a gypsy dancer. “Sorry, Dan. I just didn’t schedule in being abducted by an ex-boyfriend.”

      He’d had no idea she was so bitter. This was going to be harder than he had thought. A lot harder.

      “In other words,” he said, “you want me to say what I have to say and then get the hell out of your life.”

      She blew out an exasperated breath. “That’s putting it a little bluntly.” Then she looked defiant. “I don’t have time to play games with you.”

      He crossed the room in two strides and clamped his hands around her upper arms. She felt delicate and breakable. He used to marvel at her softness, her femininity, the way it contrasted with his own hard edges and roughness. But when she flinched at his touch, he grew angry.

      “Is that what you think this is, lady? A game?”

      “Tell me different.” She glared up at him.

      “I brought you here because you ran away, and I was fool enough to let you go. Well, not this time.”

      “What?”

      He stared into her eyes, seeing his reflection in their depths and, in his mind, seeing the dreams and desires that used to consume them both, feeling the ache of an unfulfilled promise.

      “I can’t let you go, Isabel. I can’t let you just walk out of my life again. You’re making a big mistake, marrying that guy, and I can prove it.”

      “How?” she challenged, lifting her chin.

      “Like this.” He lowered his mouth to hers and cupped his hand around the back of her head. This was not how he had treated her aboard the ferry. He was not teasing her or, in some mean-spirited way, trying to assert his masculine power over her. This was a kiss designed to bring back the wildness and passion they had once shared. To remind her—remind them both—of all they had lost and all they could be once again if they tried.

      She held herself rigid. At first, she made a resentful sound in the back of her throat. He softened his mouth on hers and skimmed his thumb down her temple to her jaw, lightly caressing. A small sigh gusted from her, and her clenched fists, which she had put up between them, relaxed. Her palms flattened lightly against his chest.

      Ah, he remembered this, the thin, keen edge of desire he felt only with her, and the way she swayed and fit against him. Her mouth was soft, and the taste