Fugitive Hearts. Ingrid Weaver

them out. “It doesn’t matter. I trust you, John.”

      Something flickered in his expression. Beneath the bristling black beard stubble, his jaw flexed. He fastened his coat, then took the hat from her and put it on. He tucked the mittens under his arm. “Thank you. For everything.”

      “I only did what anyone would.”

      “No, Dana,” he said quietly. “There aren’t many people who would be so kind to a stranger.”

      “You’ve been good company. Besides, I always welcome an excuse to put off working for a little while longer,” she said. “No self-discipline, you see. I don’t know how I ever get a book done.”

      “We all have to do things we don’t want to sometimes.”

      “Hah. I see you know about editors.”

      Her weak attempt to lighten the mood didn’t work. He regarded her in silence for a moment, then extended his hand. “Goodbye, Dana.”

      She slipped her hand into his…and her breath hitched.

      She had touched his bare skin before—heck, she had seen practically every square inch of skin he had—but this was different. She was aware of the firm warmth of his palm, the subtle swell of his calluses, the strength that pulsed beneath the surface of the polite gesture. And she was very, very aware of how close they were standing.

      Oh, for heaven’s sake, she told herself. It was only a handshake. “Goodbye, John.”

      “Take care of yourself.”

      “You, too.” She swallowed, trying to keep her voice normal. “And say hello to Chantal from me.”

      A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I will.”

      Without thinking, she lifted her free hand to his face, pressing her fingertips to the tense knot in his jaw.

      His gaze met hers, his dark eyes swirling with expressions she couldn’t name. “Dana.”

      The way he said her name warmed her right through to her toes. This was too fast, she thought. Circumstances had thrust them together. They were like strangers on a train, two ships that passed in the night, all the old tired clichés. They would probably never meet again.

      So she couldn’t really be considering kissing him goodbye, could she?

      He tilted his head, leaning into the gentle caress of her palm.

      Yes, she could. That’s exactly what she was considering. What did it matter how they had met or how long they had known each other? Maybe she had made the same kind of instinctive judgment as Morty. She tipped up her chin and focused on the lips beneath John’s desperado mustache.

      A log popped in the fireplace. In the silence that had fallen between them, it sounded like a gunshot. John jerked back. “Dana, I’m sorry.”

      “Mmm?”

      “I’ve got to go.” He dropped her hand and turned away to open the door.

      “John…”

      Cold air surged over the threshold. He pushed his way through the snow that had drifted over the yard, carving a knee-deep path in the blanket of white. He stopped when he reached the beginning of the lane and turned to look over his shoulder.

      Dana waved, then stepped back inside and swung the door shut. Biting her lip, she let her forehead thud against the wooden panels.

      Oh, God. What had she been thinking? She had almost made a complete fool of herself.

      Must be lack of sleep or barometric pressure or phases of the moon or…

      Or maybe she had been living on her own too long. It had been two years since Hank had left. Maybe that’s why she was ready to throw herself at the first man who happened by.

      But it wasn’t just any man. It was John Becker, with his haunted eyes and his endearing, rebellious hair and his tender smile and his love for his child…

      “You’re pathetic,” she muttered to herself. “Right round the bend. First you’re worried because you’re trapped here with him, then you’re upset because he leaves.”

      Morty meowed and sat on her foot.

      “It was my imagination, that’s all,” she said to the cat. “All this creative energy floating around, ready to make up stories. I should put it to work, that’s what I should do. That’s what I’m being paid for, right?”

      But instead of heading for her drawing table, she went to the window and watched until John was out of sight.

      The rest of the day was a total loss. Dana did everything she could think of to get her mind back on her work. She put on her most comfortable sweater. She made endless pots of camomile tea. She organized her papers and sharpened all her pencils, but the drawing that took shape wasn’t a marmalade cat and pirate mice. It was a man’s face.

      “Argh!” Dana tossed her pencil on the floor and tunneled her fingers into her hair. It was more of a doodle than a drawing, only a few vague lines, but the long hair, the mustache, those dark, haunted eyes were unmistakable.

      “This is pointless,” she muttered. She needed some fresh air, she decided, going over to put on her coat. It was high time to switch into her role of caretaker, anyway.

      She had almost cleared a path to the main lodge when she heard the clinking rumble of the snowplow. She leaned on her shovel and waved a greeting.

      The driver turned around in the parking lot and lowered his window. “Everything okay here, Miss Whittington?” he called.

      “Just fine, thanks, Mr. Duff,” she shouted over the noise of the engine. “That was some storm.”

      “Forty centimeters. We been doing double shifts for three days and still aren’t finished.”

      “Did you see a car in the ditch?” she asked.

      “More like a few dozen. The roads are a mess with all the wrecks.”

      “Any cars in the ditch near here?”

      “Nope. Lucky, eh?” The engine revved loudly as the driver put it back in gear.

      Dana smiled. John must have managed to get his car out and get home after all. “Thanks for swinging by,” she called.

      The driver touched his hand to his hat in salute. “No problem. Take ’er easy.”

      Dana waved and turned back to her shoveling. By the time she had cleared the front entrance to the lodge, she was out of breath and in need of a shower. She took the keys from her pocket and opened the front door.

      A puff of warm air greeted her, along with the ringing of a phone. It had been so long since she’d heard the sound, it startled her. She stamped the snow off her boots and crossed the floor to the registration desk. “Hello, Half Moon Bay Resort,” she answered.

      “Dana! Are you all right?”

      It was her sister, and she sounded on the verge of panic. “Hello, Adelle,” Dana said. “I’m fine, how are you? Is everything okay?”

      Adelle ignored the question and rushed on. “Why haven’t you been answering the phone? I’ve been worried sick.”

      “The lines were down because of the storm.”

      “That’s what the phone company said, but they claimed the problem was fixed last night.”

      It couldn’t have been, Dana thought. She had checked an hour ago and there hadn’t been any dial tone.

      “I’ve been trying the number at the cabin all day,” Adelle continued. “When you didn’t answer, I started leaving messages on the lodge number.”

      Dana glanced at the answering machine behind the desk. Sure enough, the red light indicating recorded messages was blinking furiously.