Down from the Mountain. Barbara Gale

window. Switching on the low bedside light, he saw that someone had left a tall glass of orange juice, some hard cheese and a plate of biscuits. The redoubtable Miss Ellen, he guessed wryly as he gratefully devoured the cookies. Many thanks, ma’am, he silently saluted with the icy glass. And I do hope you enjoyed the view, he grinned as he glanced down at his naked body.

      Oh, but she would not have, he reminded himself with a twinge of guilt for his foolish thoughts.

      Half an hour later, dressed in chinos and a light summer sweater, David sauntered into the library. He frowned as he paused by the bar. Fortification? But before he could pour himself a drink, a faint rustle distracted him. He glanced in the direction of the fireplace, where a fire had been lit against the evening chill.

      Nestled on the sofa, a book resting in her lap, Ellen Candler faced the fire. “David?”

      “Yes, ma’am, it’s me,” he answered promptly.

      She really was lovely, he thought, her pale skin glowing in the firelight, her red hair a golden waterfall burnished by the fire. How on earth had she managed to live here these past ten years, and he never heard a word of her existence? How careful the old man had been, to never mention her. How strange.

      “Up kind of late, aren’t you? I was thinking of a drink. Care to join me?”

      “I…um…” Ellen flushed, feeling foolish at her inexplicable attack of shyness. But David’s deep voice was so devoid of emotion, she wasn’t sure how to respond.

      “Don’t feel obliged. I don’t mind drinking alone,” David said briskly as he splashed some bourbon into a glass and settled on the sofa. “By the way, thanks for that midnight snack I found beside my bed. I fell asleep, just as you predicted.”

      “You had a very long day. When you didn’t show for dinner, I understood, but I thought you might want something when you woke.”

      “You were right absolutely right. Those biscuits didn’t last a minute.” Tossing off half the bourbon, David rested an arm along the back of the sofa and stretched his feet toward the fire. Looking around the library, he could see that nothing much had changed here, either, aside from the presence of the young woman. Sitting beside her, David enjoyed the unexpected pleasure of perfume suddenly wafting to his nostrils. A flowery concoction, delicate and faint. Gardenias again. He hadn’t smelled perfume in years and discovered that he missed it. Wrapped in its elusive magic, he turned his head her way, wanting more.

      “Is it hard to master Braille?” he asked, glancing at the spine of her book.

      “Not if you want to read,” Ellen smiled, unaware of the captivating picture she made.

      “What’s it called?” David teased, running his fingers over the dots and dashes. “I don’t know Braille.”

      “The Return of the Native.”

      “Never read it.”

      “I love Thomas Hardy and— Oh, I never thought!”

      David laughed even though it was something only half his face could do. Somehow, though, because Ellen could not see his distortions, he felt freer to emote. “Please, don’t apologize! There is an irony here that is irresistible! After all, I am a native returning home, too, in my own way.”

      “Yes, well,” she said uncertainly, “as long as you understand that I meant nothing by it. I’m plowing my way through all Hardy’s books.”

      “Jude the Obscure, too?”

      “Jude the Obscure, too!” she admitted. “Hey, I thought you just said you’d never read Thomas Hardy.”

      “I never said I hadn’t read old Thom Hardy, I just said I’d never read The Return of the Native.”

      “Oh. Well, it’s my favorite.”

      “Then I’ll put it on my list of books to read. Brilliant and beautiful! Seeing you now, I understand why my father kept you under wraps.” He was glad he could openly admire her, she certainly was a pretty little thing. More than pretty, quite beautiful, actually, even if she did look drawn and tired. John had shown good taste, but how on earth had he had the nerve to rob such a cradle? He watched as she played with her book, her face an easy read as she searched to uphold her end of conversation. Failing miserably, she gulped her silence like a fish and he supposed she was grieving, which would make conversation even more difficult. Theirs even more so. He wondered, too, how she felt about his father.

      “Did you love my father?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Even David was shocked to hear the tactless question floating on the air. But he couldn’t bring himself to retract it. Something wicked in him wanted to know. No one who knew him would believe the way he was acting, behaving like a fool, barely in control of a conversation he’d never meant to begin.

      “Sorry, Miss Candler. That was unkind, even for me. Maybe I’m more upset than I want to admit. I guess I’m not quite sure how to treat you, although I sure don’t wish to quarrel with you. As my father’s mistress, I know how much respect is due you.”

      “His mistress?” Ellen gasped. “Oh, how could you think that? John Hartwell was the kindest, most generous man who ever lived, and he would have never…never— Oh, you dreadful man! How could you think such an awful thing?”

      David’s face grew hot in the face of his mistake. “Hey, I just assumed…your living here all these years. You’re so beautiful, I just figured… Hell, why else would anyone who looked like you want to hide away on the top of a mountain?”

      Ellen scrambled to her feet, fumbling for her cane. “I’ll tell you how it is, Mr. David Hartwell,” she exclaimed. “I was born here in Montana. My parents were attorneys down in Floweree and very good friends with your father. They were going about county business when they were killed in a plane crash, six years ago. I was seventeen—an only child of only children—about to be fostered when John heard and intervened.” How to explain the kindness of an old man to a young girl? Taking her in at an age when most men were planning their retirement, asking nothing in return except some decent dinner conversation. Surely he had given more than he received, but how to explain that to David? Her words sounded inadequate, even to her own ears.

      “Took you in, you mean?” he asked uncertainly, amazed at his father’s generosity.

      “Took me in,” she repeated proudly. “A grief-stricken teenager who also happened to be blind. Quite a handful for a man about to settle into his senior years, don’t you think? Young as I was, I knew that. I knew the generosity of his act. The day I walked through his front door, I vowed never to make him regret his decision, and he never did!”

      David stared into her grass-green eyes, shiny with tears—or was it anger? It didn’t matter. The look she harbored was unforgiving. “Look here, Ellen, I didn’t know.”

      Ellen’s body language was her answer to the apology in his voice. She was rigid, her breathing shallow, her voice arctic and impersonal, when finally she spoke. “My cane, please. I thought I left it near the fireplace.”

      He found it at once, a beautifully carved mahogany staff inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He’d bet anything it was an antique, and a gift from his father, but he didn’t dare ask.

      “Thank you,” she said coldly. “Now, if you’ll point me toward the door, I seem to have lost my bearings.”

      Turning her in the direction she requested, David’s fingers clasped Ellen’s shoulders, his touch light. But her stiff resistance made him want to shake her. “Listen, Miss Candler, I’m only trying to understand how things were. There was a lot of distance between my father and me, and now I’m here, I’m beginning to see it was greater than I thought. I mean, look how it is for me! He never even mentioned you, for Pete’s sake! Don’t you think there’s something odd in that?”

      He must have touched a chord because he felt her ease up, ever so slightly. “I suppose,” she admitted slowly.

      “Yes,