A Bungalow For Two

He was right. She was freezing inside and out. If she didn’t get out of these wet clothes, she’d catch her death of cold. “Maybe…maybe I will change.”

He grinned, showing white, even teeth in his smudged face. “Fine. I’ll lay some things out in the bedroom and you can change in there. There’s a lock on the door, if you’re worried. I’ll be in the bathroom showering.”

It sounded reasonable enough. Maybe the guy was harmless. She nodded. “I’d appreciate some warm clothes.”

He disappeared down the hall, then returned a minute later and led her to the bedroom. “My things are way too big for you. But I found a flannel shirt and some sweats with a drawstring, so they should stay up okay. If you’re still cold, you can wrap yourself in a blanket. Just take one off the bed.”

“Thank you.” She was still hugging herself, shivering. As soon as he stepped out of the room, she shut the door and bolted the lock. After removing her soggy sneakers, she quickly peeled off her soaked jeans and blouse and hung them over the metal bedpost. Her underwear was damp, but she wasn’t about to part with it. She pulled on the long-sleeve shirt and baggy sweats and pulled the strings until they were cinched around her narrow waist.

For the first time she glanced at herself in the bureau mirror and shuddered. Who was this straggly, ragamuffin waif looking back at her with smeared makeup and disheveled hair? She looked like something out of a fright movie. Oh, well, the last thing on her mind was impressing anybody, especially her churlish stranger.

Gingerly she unlocked the door and peered down the hall. No one in sight. She heard the shower running in the bathroom. And—was it possible?—a deep voice was crooning a country-western song. The nerve of that man, to be singing so nonchalantly when they were in such a dire predicament!

She pulled a blanket off the bed, wrapped it around her shoulders and tiptoed down the hall past the bathroom. When she heard the shower go off, she scurried on to the living room and curled up on the couch before the fireplace—a little bug in a rug, as her mom used to say.

The man’s voice sounded from the hallway. “You through in the bedroom, miss?”

“Yes, it’s all yours,” she called back, quelling a fresh spurt of anxiety. Now what? Was she actually going to spend an entire night in this house? Was she safe?

After a few minutes, the man came striding into the living room in a fresh T-shirt and jeans. He was toweling his dark, curly hair. His eyes were still tearing. But without all the soot and grime, he looked uncommonly handsome. His strong classic features were as finely chiseled as a Michelangelo sculpture—a perfectly straight nose, high forehead and sharply honed cheekbones, a wide jaw and a full, generous mouth. Arched brows shaded intense brown eyes and the stubble of a beard shadowed his chin.

Frannie realized she was staring.

He tossed his towel over a chair and eyed her suspiciously. “Is there a problem, lady?”

Frannie felt her face grow warm. “No, I’m sorry. I was concerned about your eyes. I hope the smoke didn’t hurt them.”

“They smart a little, but they’ll be okay.” He sat down in the overstuffed chair and raked his damp hair back from his forehead. “What I want to know is how you got all that smoke backed up in your house like that.”

Frannie tightened the blanket around her shoulders. “I just started a fire, that’s all. How did I know it was going to back up into the house?” She tossed him a defensive glance. “I checked the flue, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

He sat forward and held his hands out to the lapping flames. “But did you check the chimney to make sure some bird hadn’t built a nest in it? Or the winds hadn’t stuffed it with debris? No telling how long it’s been since someone built a fire in that place.”

Frannie shook her head. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Next time, get yourself a chimney sweep before you go starting a fire.”

She bristled. “I will. First thing tomorrow. Or…whenever the rain stops.”

He coughed again, a dry, hacking sound that shook his hefty frame.

“You inhaled too much smoke. Maybe you should see a doctor.”

He laughed, and coughed again. “No way to see a doctor tonight. Maybe I’ll fix a little tea and lemon. Want some?”

She shivered in spite of the dry clothes and heavy blanket. “Yes, some hot tea would be wonderful.”

He stood and gazed down at her. “Listen, neighbor, if we’re going to spend the night together, there’s something you need to know.”

She gazed up at him with a start, her backbone tensing. The rain was still hammering the roof, its relentless rat-a-tat echoing the fierce pounding of her heart. “Something I should know? What’s that?”

He held out his hand. “My name. I’m Scott. Scott Winslow. What’s yours?”

She relaxed a little and allowed a flicker of a smile to cross her lips. “I—I’m Frannie. Frannie Rowlands.” She slipped her hand out of the blanket and allowed his large, rough hand to close around it.

He matched her smile. “Well, Frannie, it’s going to be a long night. We might as well make the best of it.”

Chapter Four

Frannie was on her guard again. She tightened her grip on the blanket wrapped around her, then glanced over at Ruggs curled contentedly beside the fireplace. If Scott Winslow tried anything suspicious, surely Ruggs would come to her defense. Wouldn’t he? Or would he just roll over and go to sleep and leave her to fend for herself?

“Sugar and cream?”

“What?”

“Your tea. Do you want it plain? With lemon? Or with sugar and cream?” A faint smile played on the man’s lips, but his eyes held a hint of something darker. Was it despair, nostalgia, remorse? “My mother was an Englishwoman. She always had a spot of cream in her tea.”

“Plain is fine for me. Just as long as it’s hot.”

While he fixed the tea, Frannie gazed around the room, assessing what sort of man she was keeping company with tonight. Please, dear Lord, don’t let him be an ax murderer! There wasn’t much to go on—a few books on a table, a radio on the counter. But no television, stereo or telephone. Nor were there any newspapers, magazines, knickknacks or family portraits in sight. And not even a calendar or a cheap print on the wall.

Who is this man? Frannie wondered. He’s anonymous. There’s nothing in this room that tells me who he is. Except perhaps his books.

She reached out from her blanket for the nearest book and turned it over in her hands. It looked like a library book, some sort of historical treatise. Did the man possess nothing of his own? As she put it back, she noticed an open Bible lying among the history books, philosophy tomes and suspense novels.

A man who reads the Bible can’t be all bad, she mused.

As Scott served the tea, she let the blanket fall away from her shoulders and accepted the steaming mug. With the tea warming her insides, her flannel shirt and sweats should be enough to keep her toasty. She put the mug to her lips and sipped gingerly, then nodded toward the stack of books. “You must like to read.”

He settled back in his overstuffed chair and took a swallow of the hot liquid. “Yes, I do. It’s one of my favorite pastimes.”

“Mine, too. When I have time.”

He flashed an oblique smile. “I always have time.”

“You’re lucky. I’m always juggling a busy schedule.”

“And mine is wide open these days.”

She ventured another observation. “I see you have a Bible.”

He nodded. “It was my mother’s.”

“Was?”

“Yes.” He paused, as if deliberating whether to go on. Finally he said in a low, abrupt voice, “She—she died.”

Frannie felt a jolt of emotions—sympathy, empathy, compassion and her own lingering pain. “I’m sorry.”