Fathers and Other Strangers

Hank hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “Well, honey—” he used the endearment deliberately, figuring it would set her off, which wasn’t something he normally did but something about this one just begged for it “—I hate to break it to you, but where you’ve got country, you’ve got critters. And since they were here first, they don’t have too many qualms about wandering on inside a place if the mood strikes. The four-legged ones’ll generally run back out if you make enough noise, and the six- or eight-legged ones you can just squish. So, that was a two-bedroom you wanted, right?”

He stepped into the office, a wood-paneled affair boasting a counter with a computer on it, a hookboard with the keys, a phone, and a couple of slightly beat-up chairs he’d gotten off Curly Mason after his wife left him and he couldn’t bear to look at her stuff anymore. Oh, and some photos of the area the former owners had put up about a million years ago which Hank hadn’t gotten around to taking down. The kid, he saw, was studying them with a tight frown wrinkling her forehead. Red-headed and peppered with freckles, she was going to be taller than her mama, he imagined, who was taller than average to begin with.

He heard Jenna Stanton’s footsteps behind him. Waited for a reaction that didn’t happen. Except, when she spoke, her tone had gone all tight-assed.

“Yes, a two-bedroom,” she said, then added, “and I forgot something else. I need a phone jack for my Internet connection.”

The key already in his hand, Hank made a face, then turned around and exchanged that key for another. See, that’s what was bugging him. If she was so damn picky, why hadn’t she asked about all this earlier? And why would a woman like her want to stay way the hell out here in the middle of nowhere, anyway? Especially with a teenager who was probably gonna be nothing but a pain in the can the whole time they were here. Just didn’t add up.

“There’s a jack in this one,” he said, holding up the key. Good thing he’d had Cherise clean out more than one cabin. “Former owners used to live there, so it’s got more outlets, too. Although, if you don’t mind my asking, what kind of operation you planning on running while you’re here?”

The girl moved on to the next set of pictures, as though she was trying to pretend none of this was going on.

“No operation,” the woman said with a tight-lipped smile. “I’m a writer. I’m here…doing research for my next book.”

“Huh,” Hank said, not missing the kid’s snort in response. “Okay, you can sign right—” he turned the register around and handed her a pen “—here.”

She signed left-handed. A left hand adorned with a wide gold wedding band and a knock-your-socks off engagement ring. An observation that provoked more brain-rattling, even as Hank told his brain to go lie down and be quiet, already.

He turned the register around. Her handwriting was strong, the letters uneven but legible. “Will…Mr. Stanton be joining you?”

“No.”

He looked up, but she hadn’t. “Credit card?”

“Oh. Of course.” She switched the small leather purse sitting on her hip around and up onto the counter, dug out her wallet and a credit card. Her nails were short; she didn’t wear any perfume that he could tell, although whatever she used in her hair was smelling up the whole office. From the heat, he supposed. He swiped a blank receipt, then handed her back the card.

“And…what do you do with the receipt?” she asked.

“Goes into the safe until you check out. Nobody can get to it except me. You can drive on around to the cottage—yours is the second one you’ll come to, with the blue porch.” He hesitated. “You need any help unloading the car?”

For a second or two, that wary gaze—now blended with a touch of pissed-offedness—tangled with his. “No,” she said. “We can handle it.” Then she straightened her shoulders and turned to the girl. “Blair, sweetie? You ready?” Obviously expecting the gal to follow, Jenna Stanton pivoted on her fancy little shoe and headed back outside.

“Yeah, ready to barf,” the girl muttered as she slowly trudged after.

Jenna stood on the cottage’s front porch, soaking in the peaceful view, giving herself a chance to get both her breath and her bearings. The lake, maybe fifty yards away, was more of a large pond, but it sparkled prettily in the sunshine, and there was a dock jutting out from the shore, so maybe there was swimming. Or wading. Something. A dense grove of trees bordered the far shore, a thousand shades of lush green back-dropped by the blurred blues and purples of the Ozark foothills in the distance. It was hot, and the mosquitoes had major attitude, but God, it was beautiful.

She inhaled as deeply as she could, letting her breath out slowly as she leaned against a support post, willing her neck muscles to unknot.

Well. About the best Jenna could say of her first encounter with Hank Logan was that she’d gotten through it relatively unscathed. Relatively being a, well, relative term. Criminy, she wouldn’t be surprised if her hair was standing on end. Damned if she could define her reaction, though. Oh, she could come up with a bunch of words, they just didn’t fit together in any sort of logical pattern. Except for one thing: based strictly upon her first impression, Hank Logan was only about a millimeter above her sister Sandy’s usual taste in men. He was scruffy—it was everything Jenna could do not to ask when he was planning to shave—he was close enough to rude to make the finals, and he clearly didn’t have a shred of affinity for children, if his completely ignoring Blair was any indication.

And damned if he hadn’t set her hormones to blaring like a city full of drunken revelers on Mardi Gras.

Geez Louise, she thought as she trekked down the porch steps to get her last bag, she really had been living in a cave these past three years, hadn’t she? Since when did she lust after men who looked as though they lived in one?

Since when did she lust, period?

Knowing what she did about Hank Logan’s recent past, she supposed she’d have to make allowances. To a point. After all, it wasn’t much of a stretch to assume his brusque demeanor masked a whole gamut of emotions he probably hadn’t yet handled. Maybe couldn’t handle, given both his gender and his former occupation. Still, there was no way she was going to let any of that—or her totally off-the-wall reaction—cloud her judgment.

Jenna returned to the cottage, thunking the bag in the middle of the worn but clean braided rug that took up most of the scuffed wooden floor in the sitting area. Okay, so the place was no five-star hotel. No surprise there. But then, she hadn’t stayed in one of those since she was a child. Phil’s income from his paintings had been far too spotty to allow for such things. And even though her last three or four Stella Moon mysteries had done well, all those years of trying to build a readership—after nearly a decade of trying to convince some publisher, somewhere, to take a chance on her writing—had left her so far in debt for so long, she still hadn’t gotten used to the idea of having money in the bank.

Jenna crossed to the nearest window, keeping an eye out for furry or scaly uninvited guests. So far, so good. She pushed aside the wooden bi-fold shutters and cranked open the window, noting that the screening was new, the windowsill freshly painted. Unfortunately, the outside air seemed totally disinterested in venturing inside, making her even more grateful for the protective canopy of trees shading the lot.

She made a quick check of the bedrooms, which were small but scrupulously clean, simply but adequately furnished. And yes, the mattresses—she yanked back the bedding to check—did indeed appear to be new. The pillows were synthetic, however. And Blair had given her grief for bringing their own goosedown ones. Hah!

Basking in her own smugness as she fanned herself in the sweltering heat, Jenna returned to the living area where she opened more windows, pausing only to flip the switch to the large ceiling fan and frown at the back of her niece’s head. Or at least, what she could see peering over the arm of the Mission-style sofa hunkered against one paneled wall. As usual, Blair was plugged into her Discman, Her Royal Felinity draped across her stomach. Jenna walked over, unplugged one ear: the Hottie du Jour—Jenna no longer even tried to keep up with who was in and who wasn’t—held forth tinnily from the earpiece. A purring Meringue yawned, then disinterestedly batted at the dangling cord.

“Hey—which room do you want?”

Blair made a face. Shrugged. Grabbed the earpiece from Jenna and rammed it back into place.

Reminding herself that this was no time to lose her patience, Jenna left Blair to her sulk and cranked open the next window, finally letting in some air. Hallelujah. Thus fortified, she returned to her niece and repeated the unplugging procedure. “Well, why don’t you go look at them and decide?”

That got a disgusted look. “I don’t care, okay? Geez, Jenna—there isn’t even a pool or anything. And it smells funny in here.”

“It’s just a little musty because it’s been closed up,” Jenna said, although she had to admit the aroma was doing nothing for a tummy already on the fritz from nervousness, exhaustion and heat. “It’ll clear out now that the windows are open.” And after I get my hands on some Lysol. “And maybe we can swim in the lake.”

Horror streaked across her niece’s features. “There’s probably, like, fish and…things in there! And seaweed! Gross!”

Jenna pointed out it would be tricky for seaweed to grow in a freshwater pond. Especially in the middle of the continent. Then, commandeering the last shreds of her quickly fading energy, she swatted her niece on the sole of her sneaker. “Come on—I need you to help me lug in the cooler. Then we can see about doing something for dinner. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

Although, to be truthful, the last thing Jenna wanted to think about right now was food. No, actually, the last thing she wanted to think about was Hank Logan. Or any of the reasons why they were there to begin with. All she really wanted to do was go to sleep for about a week and forget about moody nieces, revelations in diaries, P.I. reports and newspaper clippings and sexy, rumpled, grumpy men with bedroom voices who wigged out her hormones.

Speaking of grumpy…Blair actually deigned to haul her tush off the sofa and out to the car, dumping a miffed Meringue onto the floor in the process.

Jenna’s spirits lifted, just a little. Miffed cats she could handle.

Springing earth-shattering news on people was something else again.

“Jenna! Jenna—wake up!”

Fighting her way out of a dream, Jenna pried open one eye and looked—if you could call it that—at Blair. “Wha—?”

“The toilet’s overflowing!”

At this point, Jenna experienced one of Life’s Little Truisms, which is that one’s urge to pee is in direct proportion to the discovery that there’s no toilet. Especially when one last went—Jenna finally screwed up enough oomph to peer at her travel clock—ten hours ago.

“Jenna! It’s like really coming out fast, all over the bathroom!”

Three seconds later found Jenna wading through the inch of surprisingly frigid water rapidly threatening the living room. Cursing and muttering, she prayed there was a turn-off valve under the toilet, both because she didn’t relish the idea of swamp living and because the gushing water was doing nothing for her full bladder.

There was. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t budge. Cursing and muttering more loudly, especially at the dumb cat who got right smack in her path, Jenna sloshed out of the bathroom and across the living room to the kitchen, where the valve under the kitchen sink did work. Which stopped the flooding—which was the good news—but also shut off the water for the entire cabin. Which was the bad.

She swore again, a meatier word this time, then stomped back to the bathroom, grabbed the spare roll of toilet paper off the commode, said, “I’ll be right back” and hotfooted it outside, still in her shortie pj’s. When she returned a few minutes later, Blair was standing on the porch, her expression duly horror-stricken.

“You went in public?”

“Yes, Blair,” Jenna said, zipping past her and on into her room, where she rummaged in her still-packed bags, grabbing the first things that came to hand. Okay, she was now officially in a bad mood. Dammit—she had planned to sleep in. She had planned on a bracing run, then a leisurely shower. She had not planned on dealing with Hank Logan before coffee. Or a shower. “I went all the way back to the road and squatted right where anybody coming or going could see me. For heaven’s sake—” she quickly hauled on shorts and a white T-shirt “—it was just me and about five million startled birds.”