A Temporary Arrangement. Roxanne Rustand

he’s got dementia. We’re locking every door and we’re staying inside.”

      When Keifer just rolled his eyes again, she gave up. “I could use some dry clothes. Could you help me find something?

      That seemed to throw him. “Uh, there’s only Dad’s stuff here. He just has sweatshirts and stuff.”

      “Show me where, okay?” The lights flickered. “But first we’d better find a flashlight…candles and some matches, too. We might not have electricity much longer.”

      She glanced around the kitchen—a Spartan place, with bare windows, stark white cabinetry and none of the homey touches indicating a family lived here. On top of the cupboards she found a serviceable kerosene lamp and a quart of lamp oil.

      Keifer pawed through the kitchen drawers and held up a box of matches and some white tapers. In another drawer, he found a flashlight.

      “I think there’s more candles in the living room. There’s a fireplace, too.”

      She put the lamp and candles on the round oak kitchen table and followed him. “Any wood?”

      “Uh-huh.” Keifer switched on the light in the living room.

      Close at his heels, she pulled to a stop.

      Because the kitchen was devoid of personality and warmth, she’d expected the same in here. But this room, a good twenty by fifteen, was paneled in dark, burnished oak, with a lovely crystal chandelier hanging over a long dining room table. Beyond that, a matching set of overstuffed chairs, sofa and love seat were grouped in front of a massive stone fireplace, which took up half of the far wall.

      With the framed Robert Bateman wildlife prints on the walls, Navajo throw rugs on the oak floor, and gleaming brass-and-glass sculptures accenting the end tables, it was a comfortable and very masculine room. Right down to the dust, Abby thought with a smile, glancing again at the chandelier.

      Keifer crossed the room to the fireplace and prodded a well-stocked kindling box with his foot. “He’s got lots of logs, if we want a fire.”

      “That’s a relief. You wouldn’t by any chance be a Boy Scout, would you?”

      His head jerked up. “Why?”

      Touchy. What was it with this kid? “I just wondered if you knew how to start a fire, that’s all.”

      Behind her, an open staircase with a log railing led to a balcony, where three doorways presumably led to bedrooms. To the left of the fireplace, a door stood ajar. She rubbed her upper arms, shivering. “I can take care of making the fire. But first, I need some dry clothes.”

      The boy put several logs in the fireplace. Studied them, then arranged them in the reverse order. From the stubborn tilt of his chin she suspected that it was just guesswork.

      “Um, Keifer, could you tell me where I’d find your dad’s closet?”

      The boy hitched a thumb toward the door near the fireplace.

      “You don’t think he’d mind if I borrowed something?”

      “Nah. He always wears the same old stuff anyway.”

      Maybe this charming room was out of character, but Ethan’s choice of clothing apparently wasn’t. It really was surprising, she thought as she moved to the doorway and tentatively reached inside for a light switch. A recluse like Ethan, having such a lovely home.

      Inheritance, maybe.

      Or the lottery.

      Perhaps even something illegal, which would account for his worry about a stranger taking care of his son. Kids tended to talk too much and if there was some sort of evidence…

      She pushed the door open wider, expecting to see a sea of clothes scattered across the floor and a rumpled bed that hadn’t been made since 1970.

      But again, Ethan surprised her.

      The bedroom was huge—easily double the size of her own back in Detroit. There was definitely male clutter. Magazines piled next to the bed. A pair of jeans and a shirt slung over a chair. But the log-framed bed was made, and intriguing wildlife paintings hung on the walls.

      Filling the wide outward curve of floor-to-ceiling windows stood a built-in desk topped with a computer, two printers and a phone/fax. Stacks of paper tilted precariously on the desk, on the floor next to it and on the chair. There were books open on every flat surface not filled with electronics and crumpled wads of paper lay like snowballs across the hardwood floor.

      Whatever Ethan Matthews did, he certainly did with a vengeance.

      She stopped to study a framed eight-by-ten on the bedside table. Ethan sat on a boulder with the boy—perhaps four or five—on his knee. Fall sunshine lit a backdrop of bright fall leaves and caught the golden highlights in his chestnut hair.

      Abby’s breath caught at seeing the man in his element. She’d seen only his injury. His stubbornness. She’d been focused on his immediate need for appropriate care.

      Here, his teeth flashed white against the tanned planes of his face. She couldn’t help but appreciate his broad, muscular shoulders, square jaw and strong cheekbones, yet she was even more impressed by the protective way he held his son.

      Standing in his most personal space, she suddenly felt very much like an intruder. “Hey, Keifer,” she called over her shoulder. “Could you come here a second?”

      He grudgingly showed up a few minutes later, a smudge of soot on his cheeks and his fingers blackened.

      She hid a smile. “Could you help me find those clothes you mentioned? I hate to go hunting through your dad’s things.”

      “The drawers,” he mumbled, pointing across the room. “Over there.”

      She’d made it past the king-size bed when a loud crack! shook the house and the lights went out. The pungent, sharp tang of ozone filled the air.

      She spun toward the door. Stumbling over something, she reeled into the edge of the desk. A towering stack of paper showered to the floor. “Keifer! Are you all right?”

      He didn’t answer. “Keifer?”

      Shuffling through the paper on the floor, she reached to steady herself against the desk and yet another stack of documents cascaded over the edge.

      “Keifer!”

      When she finally reached the door, the empty living room was dark and illuminated only by flashes of lightning, and she could hear the back door in the kitchen banging against the wall as gusts of damp air blasted through the house.

      A door she’d locked just minutes ago.

      “My God,” she whispered into the darkness. “Why would he leave?”

      IGNORING THE SOUND of Abby calling his name, Keifer took a wary step off the porch stairs, clutching the edges of his rain slicker together with one hand. He aimed the flashlight around the yard, hoping Rufus would come running.

      It was all the way dark now, with the rain falling in steady icy sheets. Such total blackness that the flashlight hardly mattered, and with the wind tearing at his raincoat, the beam wavered, creating spooky shapes and shadows.

      Shaking as much from the cold rain as his lifelong fear of the dark, he took another step. And another. Then he gave up trying to hold the coat closed and gripped the flashlight with both hands. “R-Rufus? Roooo-fus!”

      He heard whining from the direction of the toolshed. A faint yelp.

      Lightning flashed. The surrounding trees lit up for a split second, their gnarled branches reaching for him, the whorls of bark on their trunks forming misshapen faces straight out of some slasher movie.

      Stifling a sob, he ran to the shed and fumbled with the latch. From inside he heard the frantic scrabbling of toenails against the wood and a sharp bark. “Rufus?”

      She