Judgement By Fire (4 page)

Through the
melee, Lauren’s eyes were drawn as if by magnetic force to the stranger in the
back of the room, and she felt a tiny shock race through her as she saw the
tight, angry look on his face. For a second she thought he might spring to his
feet, but then he settled his long, lean body back against the hard chair in a
semblance of relaxation.

Moments later
as the noise died down, another man, heftier even than Roger Wellman, lumbered
to his feet from a seat in the middle of the hall. Harry Turner, village reeve
and owner of the community’s only gas station and auto repair shop, cleared his
throat and began to speak in his slow, thoughtful way.

“I think
myself that you’re chasing butterflies. I’ve spoken briefly to these Rush Co.
people and they have assured me that there will be full disclosure—full
disclosure, now - once the project is properly decided. They might not even
pick West River.” He raised a massive, callused hand to quell the clapping and
catcalls, which flooded over his remarks.

“Now, how many
of you haven’t worked in the past six months? How many more depend on the
occasional or seasonal jobs to earn enough stamps to draw pogey all winter?
This community, like so many others in the province, is in trouble, folks.
Economic trouble—you all know that. Farming barely supports the farmers, and
there’re no jobs for hired hands. Logging’s gone, and so have the paper mills.

“There’s
nothing here, anymore, but tourism. And the trouble with tourism is it’s not
reliable. You can’t do your planning on it. Oh, I know there have been a few
good years; there are lots of artsy-fartsy types coming in to gawk at the
artists-at-work and to take part in the festivals. But what we want is to get
noticed by some proper industry.”

“And you call
a glorified fat farm a proper industry?” snarled Roger Wellman.

“No, but you
know and I know that Rush Co. has the dollars, has the industrial variety, to
come up with something more, something nitty-gritty, jobs we can get our teeth
into. Not summer jobs and namby-pamby stuff for the tourists from the city that
leave us out of work half the year. Real jobs, folks, regular pay packets and
plenty of them. No more drawing government dole all winter and seeing our young
‘uns take off to Toronto or Vancouver or Calgary.

“Yet here we
all are, wanting to throw jobs away, industrial taxes and extra customers and
everything that goes with it, wanting to throw them all away as if we were
Toronto and didn’t need the work or the money. Well, you must all be mad. A
little co-operation here could mean work, neighbors: construction jobs,
cleaning jobs, maintenance jobs. I say this proposal is good for West River and
we should welcome Rush Co. with open arms.”

Turner turned
and walked out of the hall, slamming the heavy old church door behind him. Off
to the side Lauren heard Roger mutter, “That old bastard always knew how to
make a dramatic exit”.

An excited
buzz started among the people in the audience. Finally, a woman on the front
row stood up.

“Harry’s
right, you know. It’s not just us. There are our kids, too. They need jobs. My
Peter’s already talking about moving away to look for work, and he’s not even
out of grade eleven.” There were grunts of sympathy and approval from around
her.

“Has anyone
actually suggested that Rush Co. would put something more our way if the luxury
holiday place goes ahead?” asked another woman from the front row.

Lauren was on
her feet then, propelled by anger before even the smattering of applause had
died down. Her deep, clear voice reached easily through the hall.

“I know how
hard it is for the young people—how hard it’s always been. How many of you have
friends who moved away for jobs—in fact, how many moved away and never came
back? But welcome Rush Co. with open arms? I say we should tell them where to
get off.

“How many
people from this community will get jobs at this facility? A few cleaners,
maybe, and groundskeepers, the odd maintenance job. Maybe there’ll be work
contracting for renovations and alterations, but how long will that last? A few
months? One good year? And then what? If you’re lucky, a few minimum wage jobs,
cleaning rooms and cottages and cutting brush. Other than that, nothing. No
tourists, no seasonal work, not even a safe place to fish for your supper or
catch a rabbit or two.”

“But the paper
said they’d employ fifty people, full time,” the woman replied.

“And how many
people here are qualified in this very rarefied branch of the hospitality
industry? This isn’t a bed-and-breakfast set up, you know. They want nutrition
experts, masseuses, physiotherapists, exercise therapists—all that kind of
thing. Is your son a qualified sports psychologist? How many people here have
these qualifications?” Lauren shot back. Her question met with silence. “That’s
right, no one. And that’s how many will get good permanent jobs at the site.”

“It’s all
right for you, Miss Stephens; you don’t have a problem with jobs like the rest
of us. No matter what happens, you can still paint your pictures,” a man called
from the back of the hall.

Lauren smiled.
“What would I paint? There’s not much of a market for scenes of tall privacy
fences or No Trespass signs in the wild. Of course, maybe I could resort to
hiding in bushes, like the paparazzi, and paint the beautiful people in their
mud treatments…” Her remark brought laughter and helped defuse the steadily
mounting tension in the small hall. Her cheeks flushed, she stood up straight,
brushing the auburn hair from her eyes.

“I say we set
up a committee now to stop Rush Co., and to show I’ll put my money where my
mouth is, I’ll donate my latest completed work for auction by that committee.
That’s publicity and fund-raising. There’s a five thousand-dollar price tag on
that picture now in the Luke Gallery, and the rights to the prints are worth a
few thousand more. Let’s get this show on the road!”

Her heart
pounding savagely, she sat down, uncomfortably aware of the blinding glare of
the television camera light focused directly on her. But at that moment the
meeting broke up and groups of people gathered in an arguing, gesticulating
mass, the anger and bewilderment they’d felt earlier finally galvanized into a
solid direction.

Looking around
at her friends and neighbors, Lauren noted with a twinge of sadness that some
people had unobtrusively left the hall, their silent departure speaking
volumes. But there was no question now about how the majority felt.

Rush Co. had a
fight on its hands.

* * *

He was
standing on the road across from the hall entrance, his long body lounging
against a rugged four-wheel drive vehicle, when Lauren, the first of the
committee members to leave, came out of the hall. She’d tried successfully to
make good her escape before the news camera team cornered her with the other
reporters in hot pursuit. They’d apparently decided that the pretty local
artist was a good angle for their story, but Lauren had evaded them with a
wave, desperate to get out into the crisp air and away from the noise, the
bustle, and the emotional tension that lingered from the meeting.

So when she
came out, pulling her parka tightly around her and gasping a little at the
sudden chill, he was the first person she saw, leaning against his vehicle and
gazing at the stars.  For a moment, she thought he was talking to himself, then
realized he was using a cell phone. She moved to pass him as quickly and
unobtrusively as possible.

Even in the dull
light, Jon recognized the woman who had drawn his eye time and time again
during the meeting, the woman whose rich, feminine voice had soothed his
frazzled senses even as her words had aroused him to anger. Seeing her now, he
impulsively wanted to detain her for a moment, puzzled by his own reaction even
as he spoke.

And when he
said softly: “It’s really a beautiful night, isn’t it?” she returned his
greeting with a smile.

He saw that
smile in the diamond clear starlight of the bitterly cold country night, and
experienced a response so rich, so soft and warm with longing that he was
momentarily shocked by the sudden realization of his own need and loneliness.
That an unknown woman could move him so, out here on a dirt road on one of the
coldest nights of the year, took his breath away.

And he knew,
as if the knowledge had always been there, that he had to find out more about
her, to know if this was a starry wild illusion, or if that smile really had
the power to make his heart pound and his breath ragged.

Suddenly, the
head of Rush Co. felt like a schoolboy again, tapping the toe of his expensive
leather boots in the frozen grit of the road and wondering what on earth he
could say to hold her near.

*
* *

Although she
couldn’t know of his struggle, Lauren was also experiencing a sudden burst of
feelings and desires she’d thought were long buried in the past.
No, damn it
,
she thought,
even in high school I don’t remember this kind of instant
attraction. Maybe I have been living in the country too long.

Unfortunately,
there is a price to be paid for preoccupation when walking in snow and ice at
night, and Lauren paid it. Normally she had an instinctive, almost unconscious
ability to walk in all kinds of terrain— an ability honed by her frequent
all-weather forays into the woods with her camera. But tonight, with her mind
still on the man behind her, she trod unwarily on a patch of ice left-over from
the previous day’s ice-storm. Her feet went from under her and she landed with
a sickening, breath-destroying slam on her back on the road.

The fall did
little more than wind her, but it certainly hurt her pride and her cheeks were
red as, in a few long strides, the blond stranger was at her side and gently
helping her to her feet.

“Thank you,
thank you—no, I’m all right, really,” she assured him in answer to his worried
query. “I guess that’s what happens when you’re not paying attention. My mind
was elsewhere and then my feet went their own way, too.” Lauren smiled up at
him, hoping she didn’t sound quite as foolish as she suspected she did.

* * *

But Jon Rush,
looking down at her, hearing her rich, low voice, surprisingly deep for a
woman, and feeling the warmth and womanly strength of her through the thick
parka, could think of nothing but that he’d like her to go on talking, like to
go on standing there listening to her, for quite some time.

Then he
realized that he was still holding her even though she was obviously steady on
her feet again and the time to do so courteously had long past, and he quickly
let go, turning practical to cover his own embarrassed confusion.

“Look, it
really is slippery, and you must be tired from the meeting. Why don’t I give
you a ride home?”

He saw her
hesitate, knowing that such a suggestion from a stranger was enough to make
many women run a mile these days—and that too often, their fears were
justified. Then she looked right into his eyes, smiled that star bright smile
again, and nodded.

But, as she
settled herself beside him in the big vehicle, she seemed to wonder if she
wasn’t making the classic mistake. “My mother always told me not to accept
rides from strangers,” she told him, half-joking but also testing his reaction.

“My name’s
Jon. You’re Lauren—I remember from the meeting. Now that we’re not strangers,
do you feel more comfortable? Your mother was right about strange men, but I
promise you, my intentions are entirely honorable,” he said, even though his
body was telling him otherwise with great insistence.

“Okay, Jon,
pleased to meet you. That’s my turn, right there, it’s a back laneway into the
Haverford Castle grounds, then it’s the first cottage on the left.” Her
half-smile seemed to reach deep inside him.

Moments later,
the Jeep passed through ornate stone gateposts and Jon pulled to a stop in
front of Lauren’s small restored farm laborer’s cottage. They sat in silence
for a moment until Lauren, lost for anything else to say, thanked him for
helping her after the fall and for the ride home, then moved to get out of the
Jeep.

* * *

She was a
little startled when he also got out and came around to help her, but somehow
his firm hand on her arm seemed so natural that she happily let him escort her
to the big oak front door.

The snow
scrunched beneath their feet, and the world around them glittered in the late
evening frost that silvered the bush round the road and turned the ground into
brittle ridges. He took her arm again with natural ease to help her over a
particularly icy patch, so naturally that Lauren didn’t find it at all odd that
he was still holding her when they arrived at her door.

In the glimmer
from the heavy brass carriage lamp set into the rough stone lintel, she got a
better view of her companion. A few years older than her own 28 years, she
guessed, and her early impression of height and breadth of shoulder were
confirmed as she stood beside him.

A serious
face, its fine-boned structure eased by the suggestion of laugh lines around
his mouth and eyes, those wonderful shadowed eyes, which now regarded her
intently. His gaze seemed to drink her in, searching her face as if he expected
to find...what? Then he lowered his mouth to hers, and Lauren felt herself
floating up to meet his gentle touch, a kiss that started like swallow wings
against her mouth.

Within
moments, they were lost in the taste of each other, drowning in the heady,
intoxicating feel of firm, warm bodies striving to get closer and closer...then
the telephone inside her cottage shrilled.

“Saved by the
bell,” Jon said wryly, pulling away from her embrace with obvious reluctance.
Lauren covered her confusion by rummaging through her pockets for the door key,
which she kept on an antique gold fob-watch chain fastened to a button sewn to
the waistband of her jeans.