The Fifth Season (3 page)

Chapter Two

Small, beady eyes flared with rage. Stone shuffled sideways, careful not to make any aggressive movements.

“Easy, boy…nice pig.”

It moved closer and snarled, displaying an amazing amount of jagged, yellow teeth. Stone made a quick survey of the room. He didn’t want to inflict too much damage, but if the pig charged he’d be forced to go for the jugular. Blood would be everywhere.

“Put that knife away, Mr. Connor,” Emma O’Malley demanded, pushing in front of the rabid, walking roast and glaring fiercely at him. He didn’t know what to do first. Kill the pig or kill the pain-in-the-butt-know-it-all resort manager.

“Get back, Ms. O’Malley. I know what I’m doing.” He crouched lower as Porkchop snarled louder.

“She’s not dangerous. Put your weapon away.”

“I don’t think so, ma’am. That hunk’o’ham’s about to make me the laughing stock of Jackson Hole.”

“You’re right about that. It doesn’t take much of a man to kill a defenseless old pig.”

His eyes widened when the woman actually knelt down and wrapped her arms around the ugly round critter. This was certainly no Wilbur. Its hide was covered with gray, bristly hair and a layer of green slime decorated its snout. By her actions, it was clear Emma O’Malley loved this disgusting creature.

Snapping his knife shut, he listened as she spoke in a honey tone of soothing words that spread a disquieting flicker of sensation down his spine.

“I was referring to the fact that I’d make the front page news as being the first human to ever die from a rabid pig,” he said, straightening up and backing further away from the odd couple sitting in the middle of his bedroom.

The woman turned watery green eyes in his direction, causing a lump to form at the back of his throat. She looked sad, as if someone had yanked the world right out from beneath her milk and honey perfection.

“Pocahontas isn’t rabid. In fact, she thinks you’re the intruder here. The only thing she did wrong was assume that this was my room.”

“And is it?” Stone concentrated on maintaining a straight face and not responding to the pig’s name. Who in their right mind would name an ugly, old pig Pocahontas?

“Is what?”

“Is this your room?” He frowned as she continued to croon softly and stroke the pig’s side.

“Not anymore,” she sighed. “It seems River Run is under new management.”

“Oh for cryin’ out loud, I already told you that your stay here has been expanded to a year. How long will it take you to find a new place and a new job?”

“Forever,” she said. Without so much as a see-ya-later, Emma O’Malley stood up, shuffled the filet of flesh out the door and exited the suite. He swore the three-hundred-pound pork chop smirked at him before disappearing around the corner.

Stone stood within the silent confines of the master suite. Running his fingers through his mop of hair, he suddenly realized the enormity of what’d been handed him.

He didn’t want to be responsible. The bullet that tore through his upper torso more than a year ago left a bigger emotional scar than the visible puckered skin around his shoulder.

Inability to make decisions.

No longer a leader.

Scared of Death.

But not scared to die. Oh no, he wasn’t scared to die. In fact, he’d tried to stay with his men...die with them. But that damn baby was pushed into his arms, and he’d made a dash for safety, leaving behind the cries of pain and the only family he’d acknowledge. Dead. All of them. Killed in a massacre the world would never know about.

They’d asked him to retire...said it was for the best. Said he should have a life filled with happiness and not war. What did they know?

Stone walked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He flipped the silver knob to the shower and waited for steam to fill the room. Glancing around, his mind fantasized imagining Emma O’Malley languishing in the marble jacuzzi or standing beneath the wide spray of water from the showerhead. He could almost see her sheer, silken nightgown, white as a lily with no other adornments but the glow of her flawless skin. Shaking his head, he realized he
did
see her nightgown. It was hanging on a hook on the back of the door.

He guessed that confirmed her answer. She must occupy these rooms when the place was empty.

Stepping beneath the stream of hot water, Stone concentrated on what he faced.

Disregarding the faint stirrings of a physical attraction, he figured he didn’t particularly care for the prickly Miss O’Malley. But if she was willing to run the day-to-day operation of the resort, then he supposed he’d better get used to her.

What other choice did he have? Allow his father to inherit? He wouldn’t give that man one thing that belonged to him, not even if it meant living with a million different people over the next twelve months.

Stepping out of the shower, he grabbed a towel and spent a quick second in appreciation of the thick Egyptian cloth.

He’d never been one for luxury, but he had to admit it had its perks.

Staring in the mirror, he toyed with the idea of shaving. He wouldn’t do that, fighting a quick pang of fear at having to face his clean-shaven image. That man was a killer. He didn’t want to see that person again.

Stone pulled on his jeans and an army-issued t-shirt and walked out the French doors. He looked around, ignoring the breathtaking vista that lay before him. There’d been a time when the mountainous range of the Grand Tetons embraced him in their beauty, grabbing his breath, and making him thankful to be alive.

But time passed. He was no longer thankful to be alive and didn’t want to acknowledge the wonders that surrounded him.

A radio blared from above, and he climbed the wooden stairs that led to the back deck. Sliding silently between the open double doors, Stone stole a few moments to absorb the woman before him.

Emma O’Malley, chief cook and bottle washer, moved gracefully around the kitchen. Her back was to Stone. He admired her quick, precise motions. The way her faded jeans hugged her entirely too enticing derriere as she pulled vegetables from the refrigerator, rinsing, then chopping. He frowned when she wiped the back of her hand across her face.

Why was she crying?

He hated tears. Backing away, Stone stumbled over a needlepoint-covered footstool and knocked a stack of books off the coffee table. He closed his eyes at the outburst sure to follow.

“Are you spying on me?” Emma demanded.

“I wasn’t spying,” he grunted, picking up the books and replacing them on the table.

“Yes, you were,” she said.

“Why are you crying?” He stood up and looked straight at her tear-stained face. Green eyes flashed back through wet lashes and a blush that would make a strawberry patch proud spread across her face.

“I’m not crying.”

“And I’m not spying.” He threw her what he prayed was a dangerous glare and retreated back through the French doors.
Enough of that
. Tears and sadness were nothing he could help with. Glancing up at the roof, he frowned. It needed a bunch more shingles and the entire estate could use a fresh coat of paint. If he wanted a quick sale, he’d have to spruce it up.

“I was not crying,” a loud voice called behind him. Sighing, he turned and faced the angry woman.

“I guess I was wrong then, but it seems to me that tearstains and wet lashes are definitely tell-tale signs of crying.”

“This is what’s making my face all funny,” she said, waving a large yellow onion at him. She brought it closer and shoved it beneath his nose. “I don’t waste time on emotional release, it’s too draining.”

“I see,” he said, pushing the offending vegetable away. “I apologize for jumping to conclusions.” His eyes widened as a fresh batch of tears pooled in a sudden emerald ocean. She pursed her lower lip and turned away. “Hey, I’m sorry, okay?” he said.

“Shut up,” she retorted, a slight waver to her voice. “I’m not crying.”

“I can see that,” he said, although he was certain that this time she was definitely crying, especially when the tears spilled over her bottom lashes and snaked lazily down her cheek.

“Good, I’m glad you understand my position,” she hiccupped. Waving the knife in his face, she began to say something but stopped when the blade fell off and clattered to the deck. She bent down spewing words that burned even his well-seasoned ears.

He was trying very hard not to laugh. It would be mean to laugh, but her language tickled something he’d thought dead a long time ago. “You’d better take your onion back to the kitchen before it has you sobbing.”

“Thank you, I’ll do just that.” Emma O’Malley turned to walk back into the kitchen. She glanced one last time over her shoulder, and Stone knew he’d better run…which is exactly what he did. Spinning on his heels, he dashed back down the deck, around the end of the house, and into the safety of the master suite.

As soon as the glass doors were shut, he burst out laughing. He laughed so hard, his side hurt. How would his therapist define this behavior? Insanity, he figured.

“I have no clue what you’re laughing at,” she said, stopping his heart and scaring him silly.

“Where’d you come from?” he gasped.

She pointed to the main entrance to his room and swept past him to the bathroom door. “I believe I left something here.”

“Yes, you did,” he grinned and started to laugh again. He didn’t understand why this woman’s discomfort made him want to sit down and haul her onto his lap. He wiped his watering eyes and sat down on the bed.

“Are you crying?” she asked, an innocent tone to her voice that sent warning signals zinging around his brain.

“No, are you spying?” he said.

She smiled slightly, a spark of amusement dancing in her eyes. “This was my room.”

“You can have it back.”

“I don’t want it. I want River Run.”

“I can’t do that, I’m sorry.”

“I understand.” Emma turned and reached behind the bathroom door. Snagging her nightgown, she wrapped it into a small ball. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“I’m positive you
don’t
understand, Ms. O’Malley.” Stone heard the sharp tones to his voice and winced as the fragile string of friendly banter snapped. Just as well, he thought. The fear of this woman suddenly escalated from zero to ten. She was dangerous.

She made him feel.

***

Emma stalked behind her desk and sank into the worn leather chair that had seen River Run from its days of barely being able to pay the mortgage to its current status. Her fist still clutched the soft fabric of her nightgown.

She’d been furious to find him attacking Pocahontas. The Pot Bellied pig was her last link to love and affection. Nate Connor handed her over when Emma first arrived, and she’d latched onto the squirmy, tiny piglet with all the adoration her young heart held. She’d accepted the responsibility and worked hard to make the pig happy. The pet was her lifeline back to reality and away from the horror that often invaded her sleep.

Stone was nothing like his father. He’d never offer a kind hand to a kid in need.

But he was right about one thing, she didn’t understand. Margaret promised to provide for her, keep her secret, and keep her safe. She’d promised.

Her throat caught, and she stifled the sob that threatened to break forth. Closing her eyes, Emma rested her head on the back of the chair. How could she be angry with a ghost? A woman she loved, no less. It wasn’t right. Of course, Margaret would’ve wanted to leave River Run to one of her descendants. It’d been in the Connor family for more than a hundred years.

But why hadn’t she left it to Nate?

“Just deal with it, O’Malley.” Standing up, Emma headed into the small munchkin-size room she used when the resort was full. She tossed the nightgown on the bed and went to her closet. Standing on her tiptoes, her fingers searched the recesses of the upper shelves finally latching onto the cool surface of a metal strongbox.

She pulled it down and caressed the surface lovingly. It’d been too long since she’d sifted through the contents and a little bubble of anticipation rattled in her stomach.

Flipping open the lid, Emma settled on the edge of her bed. She carefully pulled out a stack of photographs. Her mother’s bright smile prompted her to smile in return, but it quickly faded into a frown as memories crashed forth shattering the peace.

Ireland, a country she barely remembered. The pungent aroma of spiced sausages and yeasty mugs of ale invaded her mind but the surroundings were only shadows. Echoes of laughter and happy carousing skimmed across her ears, but she didn’t know why they were there. She couldn’t remember.

“Hey,” a deep voice crashed into the silence of her room, causing her to jump off the bed and spill the contents of the strongbox across the floor.

“What’s the matter with you?” she said. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry,” he answered, kneeling down to gather up the loose papers scattered on the carpet.

“I’ll get those,” she cried, suddenly panic ridden at the thought of discovery. What a fool she’d been keeping these incriminating items in her possession.

“Who’s this?” he asked, handing her a picture. She glanced down at the faces smiling brightly into the camera lens.

“My parents.”

“Where are they?”

“Dead,” she answered, unable to prevent the flicker of glassy eyes and rivers of blood that replaced the couple in the color photo.

Her father, Hugh Gallagher, battled all his life against the Provisional IRA. He’d viewed them as nothing more than glorified terrorists. Working furiously to aid in the implementation of the Good Friday Agreement, his life came to an abrupt halt when her mother was brutally murdered in their home...a violent act that shouldn’t have a place in the memory of a thirteen-year old.

“I’m sorry, Emma.” His gentle voice shocked her, and she frowned at him.

“Nothing to be sorry about. It was a long time ago,” she said, stuffing the documents back into the safety of her strongbox. This alarm at discovery restated how insecure she’d become. “What can I do for you?”