Snowfall at Willow Lake: Lakeshore Chronicles Book 4 (10 page)

Haven't you done that already? she wondered wryly. “No need. I'm all right. I haven't looked under the bandage, but it's not painful or itchy, nothing like that.”

“You should probably take another antibiotic.”

“More Rottweiler pills?” She shrugged. “Sure, why not? Can it wait until after I get dressed?”

“I'm tempted to say no, but that's just because of that nightgown.” He grinned, and instead of feeling offended, Sophie almost smiled back. “Seriously,” he said, “you should probably eat something, so the antibiotic doesn't upset your stomach.”

She nodded. “Listen,” she said, “I'm sorry I panicked last night, you know, when I saw all the blood.”

“Don't worry about it. Lots of people can't stand the sight of blood.”

She teetered on the verge of saying more, that the sight and smell of blood had brought back a rush of horror so intense she'd forgotten where she was. She didn't tell him, though. Here in this peaceful, snowed-in setting, it was hard to imagine the violence and mayhem she'd survived. He'd probably think she was making it up.

“I might need a few of my things. Is the rest of my luggage still in the trunk of the rental car?”

“I'll get it and bring it up to your room.”

“I can manage.”

“Not with that knee. It's no trouble.”

“Well, then…thank you.”

With that, she fled from the kitchen and hurried up the stairs. She phoned Daisy and then Max, in both cases getting voice mail on the first ring. She hung up without leaving a message. No doubt they assumed she had stayed in the city because of the weather.

The upstairs bathroom had an old-fashioned charm, with its vintage lighting and plumbing fixtures. She drew a bath in the deep, claw-foot bathtub and sank in with a heavy sigh of gratitude. She kept her bandaged knee out of the water as she lay back, covering her eyes with a damp cloth.

It felt quite strange, having no agenda for the day. To Sophie, this was a concept she had never explored—simply doing nothing. The moment her first child was born, she had stepped onto a treadmill, convinced she could have it all—marriage and family, career and success. She hadn't allowed herself to stop or even slow down.

It had taken a group of terrorists to do what no one else in Sophie's life had ever accomplished—to make her come up for air. The irony of this did not escape her.

Using techniques she had learned in the aftermath of the incident, she guided her thoughts away from planning, examining, regrets, anything that would take her out of the moment. She had yet to master the yoga-esque concept of completely emptying her mind of all thought. To her, that just felt wrong, brain-dead. Instead, she directed her wandering thoughts to this moment—right here, right now.

And right now, she was curious about the stranger who had rescued her. Noah Shepherd, a veterinarian. He seemed to fit in this big, rambling farmhouse. He had a gentle, healing touch, and in the middle of disaster, she had trusted him completely. She didn't know why. Maybe it was his bear-like strength and the fact that he opted not to wield it. Or perhaps it was the expression of concern on his face—an uncommonly masculine face, square jawed, shadowed by a hint of beard, gorgeously sculpted cheekbones and an easy smile.

“You're projecting, Sophie,” she said, levering herself up out of the tub. “You want him to be a hero, because you want to be rescued. Cared for. Looked after.” She'd been told she was still at risk for Stockholm syndrome—the bizarre tendency for hostages to sympathize with their captors. Maybe Noah Shepherd had captured her. Maybe she was his hostage, and didn't even know it.

Pondering the twisted idea of being Noah Shepherd's hostage, she dried off, wound her hair in a towel and dressed. One of the first things she was going to have to do was buy clothes more appropriate for the weather. Her trousers had been ruined last night. She had one other pair of slacks with her, of soft camel hair lined with satin, the sort she might wear to take a statement from a monarch or statesman. Or, she thought, to have breakfast with a country vet.

She drew the slacks on carefully and donned the same black sweater she'd worn last night. Then she put on her boots, already anticipating Noah Shepherd's silent disapproval. The boots weren't warm and the heels made them a hazard.
Too bad,
she thought. She certainly hadn't come here expecting to find herself snowed in. She combed out her hair, put on a bit of lip gloss and at last felt vaguely human. She tried calling her children yet again and still got no answer. Perhaps they were taking advantage of the snow day by sleeping in.

She stepped out into the upstairs hallway, giving the place a cursory exploration. All right, she was snooping. This appeared to be a classic upstate farmhouse, with bright, boxy rooms and lots of figured woodwork. There were several rooms that looked as though no one had been in them in years—a wall calendar opened to April 2005 was a clue. This was a lot of house for one guy.

She headed downstairs, taking her time, studying the framed photographs lining the stairwell. They ranged from sepia-toned, soft-focused portraits from the 1920s to modern-day school pictures of smiling strangers. A strong family resemblance threaded through the generations, though she couldn't quite work out how Noah was placed in the group.

At the bottom of the stairs, she paused to peek into the front room. Judging by the decor, he was a man who didn't bother to hide the things that were important to him—an oversize sofa, a big fancy stereo, a wide-screen TV and a stack of electronic games. The place might have been furnished by a fourteen-year-old. In one corner of the living room was a complete drum set, a keyboard, two microphones and a bewildering array of speakers. It was a cross between a farmhouse and a frat house.

On the opposite side of the front vestibule was a formal parlor that didn't appear to get much use. A bay window afforded a magnificent view of a broad, sloping lawn and a tree-lined driveway. At least, she assumed it was a driveway. At the moment, everything was covered in a uniform blanket of snow.

Beyond the sloping yard was the road, which now bore no resemblance to a road. Somewhere down there, her rental car was in a ditch.

From this vantage point, she could make out two cottages in the distance, both of them all but buried in snow. The Wilson house was the one with the river-stone walls and gabled roof. Beyond that was Willow Lake, as vast and magnificent in winter as it was in summer. It was completely frozen over.

Warm air from the furnace blew gently through a vent in the floor. She felt like standing here all day long, just gazing out at the white world and imagining her future here. Then a movement caught her eye as a group of people came into the front yard. A family, she thought, and then with an odd jolt she recognized Noah Shepherd. He was walking beside a woman in a blue ski jacket and they were towing three small children on a sled.

Oh,
she thought. And then,
of course.
Of course he was married. Of course he was a family man. He was simply too appealing not to be taken. She must have been too confused by her eventful night to realize that.

As she watched, he scooped up the largest of the children, a boy of perhaps six. He swung the kid in the air, eliciting laughter. The two younger ones laughed and clapped their mittened hands. A grown dog and the yellow puppy cavorted together, completing the picture. They made an idyllic-looking family, Sophie observed, the kind depicted on sentimental Christmas cards. As he played with the kids, Noah seemed to be a man completely in his element, the kind of guy who was born to be a dad. He just had that energy about him.

Something didn't fit, though, Sophie thought as she took her coat from the hall tree and slipped it on. It was the way Noah had looked at her when she'd come down to the kitchen in her negligee. That, and the fact that no woman ever born would have a living room like the one across the hall, with its garage-band setup, neon beer clock on the wall and a display of old license tags and hubcaps on the chair rail.

Stepping out onto the front porch, she paused while the cold air shocked her lungs. Then she waved to get their attention.

Noah spied her and waved back. “Sophie, this is Gayle,” he said. “And these are Henry, Mandy, and the little one's name is George, but everyone calls him Bear.”

Sophie greeted them, mustering all her best skills of diplomacy. “It's nice to meet you. It was so good of Noah to help me out last night.”

“Noah's good to everyone,” Gayle assured her.

Meaning,
you're not so special,
thought Sophie.

Then Gayle said, “Well, we'd better get on home. I've got something in the oven. See you around, Noah. Nice to meet you, Sophie.”

Each of the children insisted on a big hug from Noah. Then Gayle walked away, towing the sled behind her. Noah stomped the snow from his boots and held open the front door. Sophie went inside, the yellow puppy trotting at her heels. The larger dog went racing up into the woods.

She was feeling…she didn't know what she was feeling. Mostly a sense of relief that they weren't his family, after all.

“Gayle lives next door,” Noah was saying, as if she'd asked the question aloud. “She and her kids have cabin fever so they went out for a walk.”

The neighbor, thought Sophie. Not the wife. She shouldn't feel so relieved, but she did. She wanted Noah to be a good guy, and it turned out he was. So far.

She followed him back to the bright country kitchen.

“Coffee?” Noah offered.

“Yes, please. I'll help myself.” She didn't want to feel like a guest here, but he seemed completely at ease with the situation.

Looking around the kitchen, she said, “This is a lot of house for one guy.” Then she realized how that sounded. “I mean, assuming you live alone.”

“I do. This is my family's house,” he said. “Used to be a dairy farm on the property. My folks closed it down and retired to Florida. When I finished vet school, I decided to set up the practice right here.”

She looked around the old-fashioned kitchen. In contrast to the scrubbed pine table, barn glass cabinets and farm sink, there was an iPod connected to a set of speakers, playing some kind of ska or hip-hop music she didn't recognize. It was the sort of thing Daisy might like.

“That's so nice, living in the place you grew up,” Sophie said.

“I guess. Where are you from?” he asked.

“Seattle, but we moved a lot.” Every few years, it seemed, her parents decided to upgrade their lifestyle. Each successive house was more luxurious, each neighborhood more exclusive as her parents' shared practice became more lucrative. The outward appearance of success and prosperity was important in the Lindstrom family, far more important than Sophie's attachment to a particular neighborhood or school.

“I used to envy kids like you,” she told him. “Kids who called one place home.”

“Good thing I didn't hate it here or I would have been shit out of luck.” His smile was edged with mischief.

Sophie turned her thick china coffee mug between her hands. It was imprinted with a picture of a cow at the end of a rainbow and the logo “The Shepherd Dairy, Avalon, New York.”

“This is authentic,” she remarked. “Not one of those faux-vintage things you find in gift shops.”

“It's the real thing.” He topped off her cup. “So you've been living overseas?”

All right, he was curious. She didn't blame him. The question was, how much should she tell him? “I've been living in The Hague. In Holland.” She didn't know whether or not he'd be familiar with it. “I was an assistant deputy counsel for the International Criminal Court. In the last case I worked on, we prosecuted a warlord who was aligned with a corrupt diamond syndicate.”

“I didn't realize an American could work there, since the U.S. isn't a member of that particular court.”

She blinked in surprise. “How did you know?”

“Let's see, it was in the paper? I do read something besides
Large Animal Digest.
”

“Sorry. And you're right, the U.S. is not a member. Neither are China, Iraq or North Korea but we keep hoping…” She let her voice trail off, deciding to keep her politics to herself. “Anyway, yes, there are Americans at the ICC. Besides, my mother is Canadian, so I have dual citizenship.”

He got up and placed a jug of milk and a large white cardboard box on the table. “I stopped by the bakery yesterday before the storm,” he said. “Help yourself.”

Inside she found four perfect, glistening cinnamon rolls. They were from the Sky River Bakery, an institution in Avalon. “Maybe just a half,” she said.

“Come on, live dangerously. Have a whole one.”

“If I stick with my anti-jet-lag diet, I'm supposed to be eating protein this morning—ham and eggs, that sort of thing.”

“I can fix you some eggs but no ham,” he said. “I don't eat meat. I spent four years learning to heal animals, not cook them and eat them. Meat doesn't look too appetizing to someone who makes a living keeping animals alive and healthy. Some stuff, I'll eat,” he added. “Like seafood. I've never had a patient who was a shrimp or a trout.”