A Promise of Fireflies (29 page)

Fully awake, Ryleigh showered and dressed in jeans, minus any distressing—this was no place for natural air conditioning—and a turtleneck under a bold ecru fisherman’s knit sweater, her father’s dog tag nestled against her skin.

Bundled against the cold and the laptop secure, Ryleigh walked the short distance to the lobby. Snow parted in the wake of her knee-high snow boots, and icy wind bit her cheeks. The grounds bustled with activity. Knots of people milled about. Some loaded their vehicles. A child’s shrill cry split the chaos.

Systematic commotion greeted her inside as she stomped snow from her boots. Across the lobby, Rose directed guests like an indoor traffic cop.

Ryleigh waved. “Good morning, Rose.”

“Well, well, well, good morning, Ms. Collins.” Rose beamed. “How was your evening? Did you sleep well?”

“No less than perfect, and I was greeted this morning by Whistler.”

“You don’t say?”

“Rose, what the heck is going on? Am I the only one left in the dark?” she asked, frowning.

“Oh my dear, it could get very dark around here.”

“Seems to be the story of my life.”

Bewilderment twinkled in Rose’s eyes.

“Long story. What’s going on?”

“Everyone’s leaving due to the storm.”

Ryleigh grinned. “A few inches of snow hardly constitute a storm.”

“Oh, but there’s a doozie coming.” She leaned into Ryleigh and lowered her voice. “I swear those weathermen can’t tell the difference between their
culo
and a hole in the ground sometimes.” Frustration wrinkled Rose’s brow. “We’ve advised everyone to leave just in case the forecasters get lucky this time.” She patted Ryleigh’s arm. “Otherwise you all might be stuck here longer than planned. This was a trial run for investors and we’re not completely set up.”

“Must we leave?”

“Of course not, if you don’t mind being housebound for a few days.”

“I have nothing else planned.”

“If this storm hits like they say,” she said with a note of caution, “the roads could be closed until Mr. Cavanaugh can arrange for the snowplows. I doubt he’ll risk the horses if the snow’s too deep.”

“I could use the solitude.”

“Couldn’t we all?”

“Mind if I use the Reading Room?” An empty room to finish her story seemed indulgent. And wonderfully enticing.

“By all means. If I don’t see you before I leave, enjoy the rest of your stay.”

“You’re leaving too?”

“My husband needs help preparing for the storm.”

“Of course. It was nice meeting you, Rose. Be safe.”

“It’s been my pleasure, Ms. Collins. Give my best to Natalie when you return home.”

Ryleigh turned to leave but turned back. “Rose, is Mr. Cavanaugh around? I’d like to meet him—to let Nat know I spoke with him.”

“He should be back shortly. He’s in his element flitting about town picking up supplies and all,” she said, her smile on the wry side, “a ship in full sail, that one.” Her hands rose in a wide circle, a feeble attempt to imitate a blustery sail.

Ryleigh smiled. “Thank you,” she said, and headed for the quiet of the Reading Room.

With foot traffic at a peak, she zigzagged across the lobby. The knot of people had thinned. She slowed to a stop and gasped at the breathtaking view. Fall River, lined with boulders and prisms of ice, ran briskly through a blanket of white and she stood motionless to pin it to her memory.

She wasn’t entirely surprised to see the Reading Room vacant. A fire crackled in the massive stone fireplace and subdued cove lighting encircled the room. Excited by the rows of books, she hadn’t noticed the fireplace the previous day. An ample tree trunk, peeled and sawn flat on top, served as the mantel and stretched the eight-foot width of stone. A bronze bust of William Shakespeare sat on one end. Her eyes followed the river rock, naturally colored and worn smooth, to a log-beamed ceiling. The room had a masculine feel, but to her relief no animal heads hung on the walls.

She sat down and pulled off her boots. The flokati rug pooled under her feet and she wiggled her toes inside her socks against the long fibers. Ryleigh curled into the corner of the leather sofa and though not entirely convinced she wanted to work, she powered on the laptop. A leisurely nap, or curling up to read with the warmth of the fire at her back and the snowy landscape in front of her seemed more to her liking. Both sounded luxurious.

Ryleigh peeked over the top of the computer screen and did a subtle double-take at the man in the long tailored leather jacket standing at the entrance brushing snow from his shoulders. He nodded before entering and stopped short of the sofa, larger in both stature and presence than she remembered. The same black cashmere scarf hung casually over straight, broad shoulders, and she recognized the designer jeans—True Religion—the same brand Mitch and Nat wore. He looked as though he’d come from outside, but definitely not from the stables.

“We meet again, Cabin Number Three.”

“Hello,” she replied, setting the laptop aside. “You have a strange habit of finding me. Or following me, perhaps?” She pursed her lips. “And if you work here, you could have easily learned my name.”

“That would be,” he said, removing leather gloves from the large hands she keenly recalled steadying hers, “presumptuously rude. That,” he paused, discarding brown paper and string from a small package, “could be considered stalking.”

Ryleigh grinned, despite his sudden appearance.

He handed her the book. “This belongs between Emerson and Gibran, but since you’re here, will you do the honor? Unless of course, you’d prefer to read from it first.”

She stared at the book and then looked to him. “You bought this because I mentioned Robert Frost?” She brushed her hand across the title.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s my job.”

She opened the book to the index and ran her finger down the titles until she spotted “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” and then turned to the page and began to recite. She paused, surprised to see him reciting the words, his eyes fixed on hers. “You know this?”

“Yes.”

“All the verses?”

“All four.” He glanced away. “If you’ll excuse me, I have guests to attend to. There’s a storm in the forecast and I must see they reach town safely. You should think about leaving soon.”

“Rose assured me I could stay,” she said, straightening. “I’ve been through my share of snowstorms.”

Intense eyes the color of strong, bold coffee, held her gaze. “The resort will remain open. So whatever you decide is fine. However, Internet and cell service can be erratic during inclement weather in this river valley. You should advise your family.”

“I intend to stay,” she said, pinching her brow. “I have a lot of work to do and I need this time away.”

The man nodded politely. “Enjoy your afternoon, then. Be careful if you venture out,” he said, retrieving the paper wrappings and hesitated for quite an extended moment—but left the room without looking back.

Ryleigh stared after the puzzling man who tended horses in designer jeans, cashmere, and expensive leather. And knew poetry. She captured one last glimpse as he strode confidently from the Reading Room, the sides of his stylish coat billowing with each long stride.

He intrigued her. Not only for the palpable display of thoughtfulness, but the way the story in his eyes seemed to emulate the turbulent emotion hidden behind hers. Part of her longed to step one foot into tomorrow and pursue the story, the other more stable, rational part tugged her back into the safety zone of today.

Summoning Rose with a wave, the stranger draped an arm across her shoulders and the woman disappeared beneath his arm, the man several inches taller and whose widespread shoulders were a generous shelter to the short, plump woman. They spoke, the animated figures a silhouette against the white backdrop obscuring everything beyond a few feet from the window.

The storm had arrived with a vengeance.

Ryleigh sent texts to Natalie and Evan letting them know she would be staying on through the duration of an impending snowstorm. Both failed to deliver. “This thing is possessed.” She tapped the screen as if doing so would inspire a cellular exorcism. Giving up on the texts, she sent each an e-mail. Surely the Internet would cooperate.

The hours passed slowly, but the snow accumulated quickly. The bustle had died and the only sounds were the occasional pop and hiss of hot pitch in the fireplace. Unable to focus, she closed the laptop and turned back to the Frost poem and read it again, though the book acted merely as a prop, the words memorized years ago.

The developing snowstorm seemed the perfect end to a near perfect day. Ryleigh packed the computer and squeezed Robert Frost between the good company of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Khalil Gibran. She paused, and pulled a collection of poetry by Emily Dickinson from the shelf just as Rose’s voice echoed across the room.

“Oh, Ms. Collins, I’m glad I caught you,” she said, a buxom chest heaving in time to hurried breaths. “Everyone’s gone. I wanted to make sure you still wanted to stay.” She rolled her eyes. “They’ve upgraded the storm.”

“Are you sure I should?”

“Mr. Cavanaugh insisted everyone go home to their families, but a portion of the staff is housed in the dormitories. Plenty enough to run the resort. And Mr. Cavanaugh will be here, of course. You’ll be fine.”

“It’s settled, then. I’ll stay.”

“Mr. Cavanaugh will see to your needs.” Rose patted her arm. “He knows this place better than anyone.”

“Am I ever going to meet this mystery man?”

Footsteps echoed in the lobby.

Rose’s eyes widened, and then disappeared in a wide grin. “I think that’s him now. I’ll introduce you and then I should leave before the snow gets any deeper, or it’ll be melting down my
fondoshciena
.” Rose cupped her hand to one side of her mouth. “My backside. God knows there’s plenty of it,” she whispered and darted to the lobby dragging a tall, broad shouldered man back by the arm.

Ryleigh gasped, covertly adjusting her collar to hide the color surely rising in a steady stream of heat from her neck to the top of her head.

“Logan Cavanaugh, I’d like you to meet Ryleigh Collins. She’s here to discuss the spa arrangements.”

A furtive grin lightened his face. “Hello again, Cabin Number Three.” He extended his hand.

Rose’s round face pivoted between them. “You two have met?”

Ryleigh took his hand. A tingle startled her as their fingers touched. “You could say that.”

Compassion and kindness emanated from watchful brown eyes and the same whisper of cologne tickled her nose.

Without the barrier of gloves, his touch sizzled with the energy of an impending lightning strike. Strong fingers closed around hers and his warm, chocolate eyes consumed her words before they could fall from her lips.

Rose glanced from one to the other. “Well, well, well.” Dismissing herself, she gave a casual glance over her shoulder and left.

LOGAN RELEASED HER
hand. “Dickinson?”

“Oh,” she replied, holding the leather-bound book slightly away from her, “yes. I’m having trouble concentrating on work.”

“Rose tells me you’re a writer.”

“Rose exaggerates.”

“May I ask what you write?”

Ryleigh regarded him curiously, the sobering contour of a handsome face defined by lines that cut deeply beside a soft mouth. “Fantasies.”

“Curiouser and curiouser?”

“No,” she said, glancing away, “nothing like
Alice in Wonderland.
” She brushed a lock of hair behind an ear.

“Hobbits of the Shire or wizards of Hogwarts?”

“Neither.” She lowered her eyes. “Romance.”

“Not exactly what I consider the fantasy genre, Cabin Number Three.”

“It is if you’ve lived my life lately.” She raised her eyes to his, the pause no more than a mental stutter. He was smiling, but his dark eyes sheltered the emotion of the person they belonged to. “Love is a fantasy—an unrealistic dream created by the imagination.”

“That’s merely Webster’s version.” He motioned for her to sit. “Fairy tales and fantasy allow us a discernible way of escape.”