Against the Wild (5 page)

“Thanks,” he said, letting her go. But his eyes remained on her face. Lane thought how handsome he was and how strongly she was attracted to him. Dylan walked her to her room, and she considered kissing him good night. But she was afraid if she started kissing him, she wouldn't want to stop.

“I'll see you at breakfast,” he said a little gruffly.

Lane nodded and ducked into the bedroom. God, she wanted that man. She couldn't remember ever feeling such lust for a man before. Not even Jason. Still, she needed to be sure. Sure of Dylan. Certain of her own emotions. And that took time. Waiting was better for both of them.

Lane brushed her teeth and climbed into bed, read for a while, a book of literary fiction she had been trying to finish for months but which usually put her to sleep. Groggy, she finally set the book aside and turned off the light. It didn't take long to fall asleep.

 

 

For the first few hours, she slept soundly. The chill in the room and the thick down comforter she nestled beneath made for perfect sleeping. It was the loud clanging of metal against metal that jolted Lane awake in the middle of the night.

The red letters on the digital clock read 3:10
AM
. Heart pounding, ears ringing, she swung her legs to the side of the bed, grabbed her fleece robe, pulled it on, and shoved her feet into a pair of slippers. Grabbing the flashlight off the floor, she hurried to the door.

The clanging continued, loud and grating on her nerves. Dylan was coming out of his room at the same time she was leaving hers. He was wearing a flannel robe, but it gapped open in front, showing a little of his hard-muscled chest.

“What is that?” she asked, trying not to stare.

“Sounds like something's wrong with the pipes. The crew was working on them today. They must have caused some kind of problem.” Striding off down the hall, he stopped to make a quick check on his daughter.

“She's always been a sound sleeper,” he said and closed the door.

Lane fell in behind him as he turned and headed for the back stairs, and both of them hurried down. Mrs. Henry, a single thick gray braid nestled against her shoulder, stuck her head out the door of her room off the kitchen as they passed,

“What is that awful racket?”

“Problem with the plumbing. Go back to bed.”

Lane kept pace with Dylan, wide awake now and curious. Dylan flipped a switch at the head of the stairs, illuminating the basement, which was huge and dark, a big, seemingly bottomless black cavern.

“Stay here.” Taking the flashlight from her hand, he pounded down the stairs.

Lane followed him partway down, watched him cross the room toward the two big propane water heaters that had just been installed. The floor and walls of the basement were made of stone, the ceiling low overhead. The cavernous room was damp, and icy cold seeped beneath her fuzzy pink robe.

The clanging grew louder, sending chills down her spine. As Dylan moved around, shining the flashlight beam into cracks and crevices not illuminated by the overhead lights, the equipment in the room cast eerie shadows against the walls. Lane pressed her hands over her ears to shut out the grating noise, but just then the awful clanging ceased.

Dead silence fell.

Dylan had disappeared, but she could hear his footsteps as he prowled the basement that encompassed the entire footprint of the lodge.

“I didn't find anything,” he said as he returned and both of them climbed back upstairs. “I'll have my crew chief take a look in the morning.”

“Has that ever happened before?”

“No.” He made a last survey of the basement, then stepped into the hall and turned off the lights. By the time they were back upstairs, Lane was yawning.

Dylan opened her door. “Get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning.”

“Dylan?”

He turned back, those blue eyes suddenly intense.

What could she say? I've changed my mind? I want you to kiss me? She'd only be sorry in the morning. “Nothing. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Dylan disappeared into his room and closed the door. Lane figured if she dreamed tonight, it wouldn't be about ravens—it would be about Dylan Brodie.

Holding on to Lane's hand, Dylan headed for his plane the following morning. He should have known she would dress up for a trip to town, today in dark brown slacks, a soft yellow sweater, and gold hoop earrings. Since it took awhile for the temperature to warm into the sixties, she was wearing a brown tweed blazer for warmth.

Everyone up here wore jeans, but he liked the classy way she dressed and wasn't about to discourage her.

“I usually don't like flying,” Lane said. As the engine roared the plane lifted out of the water and began to climb into the air. “But this is wonderful. On those commercial flights, you're packed in like sardines. You've been searched, poked, and prodded, and once you're in the air, you have no idea who's at the controls.”

He followed her gaze out the window, toward the sea stretching ahead of them and the glacial peaks in the distance.

“This is different,” she said. “It makes you feel so free.”

“My dad was a pilot. He started me flying when I was a teen. I knew right away it was something I wanted to do.”

“You were a bush pilot, right?”

“That's right. Still am. Difference is, now I'll be flying my own clients instead of working for someone else.”

“As soon as you get the lodge finished,” she said.

“That's right. I'll be flying them into some of the nearby lakes. The fishing's fantastic.”

“Where will you live in the winter?”

He flicked her a sideways glance. “We'll be right there. We'll close down the guest wing, but the lodge is where we live. Right now Emily's being homeschooled, but I'm hoping eventually she'll be able to go to school in Yeil.”

Lane settled back in her seat. “So . . . did your crew chief figure out what was wrong with the plumbing?”

Dylan blew out a frustrated breath. “He checked everything. Swears it's all working perfectly.”

“I'm afraid I'd have to differ.”

“That's what I said. I've got him making another check. Could be it's something else.”

“I hope he finds it. That wasn't the most pleasant way to wake up in the middle of the night.”

Dylan shot her a look. He imagined sliding his hands into all that glorious red hair and his groin tightened. “I can think of a far more pleasant way to wake you up in the middle of the night.”

Color washed into her cheeks. He wondered how long they could last without giving in to the heat, finding out where it would take them.

“There's the town,” she said as he started his descent. Homes sparsely dotted the hillside above the water, and Main Street wound along parallel to the sea.

The ocean was smooth as glass and so was his landing. Creating a sizable wake, he taxied up to the floatplane dock and got the plane secured. A few minutes later they were walking toward Waterside, population a little over three thousand.

His supplies came in at C.J.'s Mercantile, which sat at the near end of the town. The bell above the door rang as he shoved it open and spotted the owner, Charlie Jensen, a squat, heavyset man with thinning gray hair, standing behind the counter.

“Hey, Dylan,” Charlie called out.

“Hey, Charlie. You got that package that came in for me?”

“Sure do. It's in the back room. When you're ready to head back home, I'll have Teddy haul it down to the plane and load it for you.” Teddy was Charlie's grandson. He worked at the mercantile in the summer when he was home from college.

“That'd be great. Charlie Jensen, this is Lane Bishop. She's an interior designer. She's here to help me with the lodge.”

“Nice to meet you, Charlie,” Lane said.

“You, too. So what do you think of the place?”

“The lodge is beautiful. I can see why Dylan fell in love with it.”

“I was out there once. Took my grandson for a drive. It was empty at the time, some of the windows boarded up, some of them broken. We walked around and peeked inside. I gotta say, the place gave me the creeps.”

Dylan felt a shot of irritation. “Empty old buildings will do that.”

“I guess so. How are things going out there?”

“We're only a little behind schedule. That's better than I expected.”

“That's good to hear. The last couple of owners had, you know . . . some problems.”

Unease rolled through him. Charlie was the town gossip. You never knew what he was going to say. “We've been lucky, I guess. Just some plumbing problems, stuff like that.”

“There's been a lot of talk about the old place. But I guess you heard the stories before you bought it.”

“What stories?” Lane asked.

“'Bout the . . . umm . . . murders.”

“I'm not interested in gossip,” Dylan said, trying to shut Charlie up. “It's all bullshit as far as I'm concerned.”

“What murders?” Lane asked.

“Oh, it goes way back,” Charlie said. “No one knows for sure what happened. People say they've seen ghosts up there. Say that's the reason the owners keep selling.”

“Well, I'm not selling,” Dylan said flatly. “And I'd appreciate if you didn't start those kinds of rumors. It isn't good for business.”

Charlie looked down at his feet. “Sorry, Dylan.”

Hoping to end the conversation, he began pushing Lane toward the door. “You want to take a walk around, get a look at the town?”

“I'd love to.” She flicked a glance over her shoulder at Charlie, obviously wanting to know more, but Dylan nudged her out the door.

“Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”

He sighed, wishing he didn't have to answer, but figuring she'd whittle away at him till he did. “Like I said, it's all just bullshit. The truth is the owner sold the place because living out here isn't for everyone—not because some ghost scared him away.”

Lane fell silent as they walked down a sidewalk that was partly wood, partly cement. It wasn't much of a town by most standards, but it was a stop on the Alaska Ferry system so there were lots of tourists this time of year through the end of summer. One of the big white boats was sitting at the main dock. People streamed down the gangway toward town and began to meander in and out of the shops along Main Street.

Dylan took Lane's arm and slipped it through his. Wandering along toward the central part of town, they passed a couple of gas stations and the Sea View Motel. There was a grocery store and an auto repair shop, though there wasn't much traffic since there weren't that many roads.

The town itself had a western flavor, with false-fronted wooden buildings and shutters on the windows. Closer to downtown, they passed the old Hotel Waterside, built just after the turn of the nineteenth century, which was empty now, with a
FOR SALE
sign in the window.

“Look, there's an art gallery!” Lane said excitedly. “Let's go in.” The old hotel sat next to the Whale's Tail, one of three galleries and a couple of gift shops in a town that made most of its money from passengers off the ferry.

Dylan indulged her, shoving open the door and leading her inside. Paintings and Alaska Native artwork, sculpture, and hand-beaded jewelry filled the shop.

Lane started prowling. “When I was in high school, I wanted to be a famous artist. I even majored in art in college.”

“What happened?”

“Mom got sick. I needed to earn a living to help with the bills. I learned fairly quickly the term ‘starving artist' meant exactly that.”

“So you gave up your dream and started doing design work.”

She shrugged. “You do what you have to.”

“Were you any good?”

She smiled. “Actually, I was.”

They strolled through the shop, looking at the different paintings, everything from landscapes to portraits, all with an Alaska Native flare. “Some of these are pretty good,” she said.

“You think so? I bet yours were better.”

She didn't disagree. And since he knew she wasn't the type to make false claims, she undoubtedly was. He made a mental note to order some art supplies. Maybe she'd have a chance to do a little painting while she was up there.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“After the breakfast Mrs. Henry cooked, I shouldn't be. But I am.”

“We've got a couple of places to eat in town. The Grizzly Café is probably best for lunch. Come on.” Lane smiled, and he guided her in that direction.

 

 

The Grizzly Café was noisy and more than half full, Lane saw as they pushed through the door, ringing the bell overhead. It was a typical small-town coffee shop, with a row of pink vinyl booths and a long Formica-topped counter with matching pink bar stools. Windows beside each booth looked down at the harbor.

A big, chesty blonde in her thirties, with long hair and blue eyes appeared to be the owner, a good-looking woman even in the simple black slacks and white blouse she wore.

She smiled when she spotted Dylan and started in their direction. The smile slipped a little when she realized Lane was with him.

“Dylan,” she said. “Always good to see you.”

Dylan bent and kissed her cheek. He surveyed the patrons filling most of the tables. “Looks like you're plenty busy.”

“Business always picks up this time of year.”

He turned in Lane's direction. “Lane, this is Maggie Ridell. She owns the place.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Maggie, this is Lane Bishop. She's here to help me remodel the lodge.”

A predatory gleam appeared in the woman's blue eyes. “So you're a decorator?”

“Interior designer,” Lane automatically corrected.

“You must be from California.” It sounded like an insult.

“Beverly Hills,” Lane couldn't resist saying, though she could have lessened the sneer if she had just said L.A.

“We met through my cousin, Ty,” Dylan explained. “Lane's done projects like the lodge before.”

“I see.” That cool gaze zeroed back on Lane. “So I guess you're staying out there.”

“That's right. There's a lot of work to do.”

One of her blond eyebrows winged up. “I'll just bet there is.”

Dylan must have finally felt the tension simmering between them. “I told Lane the food here was good. How about some menus, Maggie?”

“Sure. Coming right up.”

Dylan led Lane over to one of the few empty booths and they slid in on opposite sides. Maggie brought menus. Lane took a quick look and ordered a hamburger and fries. Dylan ordered the same. Maggie's swivel-hipped walk carried her back to the kitchen.

“So . . . I guess you have an admirer,” Lane said, her gaze still following the buxom blonde.

“Maggie and I are just friends.”

“Friends with benefits? Or just regular friends?”

Dylan's mouth edged up. “Regular friends. And I hope what I'm hearing in your voice is a touch of jealousy.”

Lane shook her head. “Sorry. I'm not the jealous type.” A complete, bald-faced lie. She might not have realized she was the jealous type before, but seeing the looks Maggie Ridell was tossing at Dylan, she was definitely feeling a touch of the green-eyed monster now.

The waitress, a black-haired girl in her twenties, pretty with her high cheekbones and ripe figure, brought their orders and set them down on the Formica-topped table in front of them.

“Hey, Dylan.”

“Hey, Holly. Holly, this is Lane.”

“Nice to meet you,” Holly said.

“You, too.” Lane was beginning to wonder how many women in Waterside had a crush on Dylan. But looking at the girl, she didn't catch any of the covetous glances Maggie Ridell had cast his way.

“So . . . umm . . . how's everything up at the lodge?” Holly asked, lingering, it seemed to Lane.

“Work's coming right along.” He handed the ketchup bottle to Lane, who squirted some on her burger and handed it back. Dylan buried his fries in crimson, then started on his burger.

“Well . . . umm . . . tell Caleb I said hello.”

Dylan smiled. “I sure will.”

Holly turned and hurried back to the kitchen, making up the lost time, Lane figured.

“I have a hunch Caleb has an admirer, as well,” she said.

“Holly's just moved back to Waterside from Seattle. She was away at nursing school.”

“How'd she wind up waiting tables?”

“She's working here part-time till she goes full-time at the hospital.”

“I guess you know just about everyone in town.”

He picked up a fry and munched it down. “That's the way it is in a place this size. I've only been here a couple of months, and I'm already part of the community. Here, people care what happens to you. It's kind of nice.”

“I've never really had that. Aside from everyone knowing everyone's business, I think in most ways it
would
be nice.” They chatted through lunch, running over some ideas for the window treatments in the great hall. Dylan paid the bill and left a tip, and they headed back to the mercantile to pick up the load of drywall tape and heavy-duty staples Dylan had come to get.

From there, they returned to the plane for the quick flight home. She'd had fun, she realized as she strapped herself into the seat. Dylan was a very good host and he seemed resigned to giving her a little breathing room and a chance to get better acquainted.

Of course, he had Maggie Ridell to fall back on if things didn't work out. Lane didn't like the idea.

As the plane made the short trip south from Waterside back to Eagle Bay, her thoughts returned to Charlie Jensen and the ghosts he had mentioned.

She really couldn't say she believed in ghosts or spirits, and clanging pipes in the middle of the night certainly weren't enough to convince her. Clearly, Dylan didn't believe the stories either or he wouldn't have purchased the lodge.

Of course there was that crazy dream. . . . Lane shoved the thought away and settled back to enjoy the ride.