Alouette, Michigan. Located high on the Upper Peninsula.

Home to strong men, stalwart women and lots and lots of trees. If you come, bring your camera—you won’t believe the number of stars in our skies or the color of our sunsets.

And if you’re lucky, you might just meet a cute critter or two. But remember: The U.P. is not like anywhere else.

We even have our own language. Don’t worry, though.

It’s easy to learn. Here are a couple of pointers:

YOOPER: resident of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (aka the U.P.)

FOURTH OF JULY: Yooper summer.

HOLY WAH!: Yooper exclamation.

TROLL: resident of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula (below the Mackinac Bridge).

FINNISH TERMS:

MUMMU: grandmother

PIKKU: little (girl)

RIIESKA: half bread, half biscuit—all good

SISU: character, grit, spunk—Finnish-style

SAUNA: steam bath (aka Finnish religion)

VIHTA: switch made of birch branches

Dear Reader,

This book was a long time in coming. Ever since I began writing for Harlequin, I’ve intended to set a book in my hometown area, the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. But it had to be the right story, the right setting and the right characters….

Noah and Claire are it—big and bold and brave. And Bay House is it, so real to me on the cliff overlooking Lake Superior that I just might try to check in. As for the town of Alouette and the supporting cast—well, they’re completely fictional, but also entirely familiar. I hope you recognize a little bit of your own hometown in them.

Please look for my forthcoming Superromance stories about the people of Alouette. If you’d like to know more, visit my new Web site at www.carriealexander.com, where you can get the inside scoop and secret family recipes for lumberjack cookies and riieska.

Forever a Yooper,

Carrie Alexander

North Country Man
Carrie Alexander

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the gang at the RFF:

For the laughs, the names, the trouble,

the chats (pass the peanuts), the witty banter, the randy Viking, the tales of the TBR.

For everything—even the thwacker!

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

“YEAH, I WANTED to get away from it all,” Claire Levander said to herself as the rental car bumpety-bumped along the ridges of the lonely two-lane country road. The blacktop had buckled like cardboard left out in the rain. “But I didn’t expect to be sent to the ends of the earth.”

Suddenly a pickup truck with a gun rack in its rear window roared by on the left. Her lungs seized as she jerked the steering wheel to the right, then fought to control her instinctive need to get away. The truck was too close.

Claire didn’t draw a proper breath until the vehicle had swung into the proper lane. The eggbeater rattle of its engine was shockingly loud with no other traffic around. She was accustomed to the efficient hum of the airport shuttles that were her normal mode of transportation to a new job.

Truthfully, it was the entire situation that had shaken her. Although she’d practically begged Drake for an easy assignment, she’d been thinking deluxe accommodations, not unrelenting rusticity. For her, country meant friendly folks, humble cottages, open farmland and a freeway to the city.

Not this—this barely civilized wilderness.

The pickup sped away, blatting stinky blue smoke from its tailpipe. The rust-eaten muffler drooped dangerously low, hanging on by a few wires.

Claire imagined that these backwoods roads were constantly littered with mufflers, tailpipes and oil pans. The country was supposed to be safe, but the odds of her getting stranded with car trouble out here in the boondocks were probably worse than being mugged on a subway.

“Drat that Drake. This is not what I need right now.” Claire clenched her fingers on the wheel and slowly eased her rental car’s tires away from the crumbling edge of the blacktop. She did not want to wind up in the ditch.

A dense, tangled forest met in a canopy over the narrow road, screening all but the ambient light of the setting sun. The snatches of sky visible through the interlaced treetops looked bruised—purple and dusky blue, faintly tinged with yellow. If she’d known her journey to the hinterlands would end like this, she’d have forgone her habit of arriving the day before a meeting and booked a morning flight. Instead, efficient as ever, she’d chosen to be early. To get the lay of the land.

Never had the phrase been so appropriate. Thus far, it was a wild, rugged, alarmingly unpopulated land. She’d driven a half hour from the airport before she’d reached a town of any consequence, then realized that she still had farther to go. Since Marquette, signs of civilization had diminished. There were no roadside conveniences. Little traffic. No habitation, either, except for the occasional driveways—if such overgrown paths could be called driveways—that led off through the woods.

“To the ends of the earth,” Claire muttered, wishing she hadn’t been quite so open with Drake about her dilemma.

Upon hearing the dubious results of Claire’s annual physical, her boss had promised her a working vacation. “This one’s a slam dunk, Claire. You’ll love Upper Michigan,” Drake the Snake had said, speaking with the usual forked tongue. “One breath of the fresh air will clear your lungs of city pollution. One walk through the woods will soothe that incipient ulcer. You’ll have pure relaxation—no worries and no expectations. We’ve booked you directly into Bay House, so you’ll be on the premises with almost nothing to do. Set your own pace on this one, hon.” Drake had chuckled. “No, that’s not so wise, is it? I want you to take it easy this time out. You’ve earned a gimme assignment.”

Claire nodded. Why hadn’t Drake sent her to Key West or Carmel-by-the-Sea, where she could have relaxed in luxury? Because he was a slithering reptile, that’s why. For months now, he’d been raking in the accolades that were rightfully hers.

The sun had almost set. She frowned at the darkening road. Feeling vaguely like Livingstone hacking through the jungle, she switched the headlights to high beams and pressed on. It took more than a slimy boss and a little bit of wilderness to defeat Claire Levander.

Friends and acquaintances considered her job with the Bel Vista Hotel Corporation a paid vacation. They were dead wrong. She did advance acquisition work for the luxury bed-and-breakfast division, which meant she traveled around the U.S. and Canada and even the occasional foreign port, checking into tourist towns, checking out various charming inns and stately Victorians for potential profitability.

It had seemed like a plum assignment when she’d been awarded the position eighteen months ago. But the nomadic lifestyle, combined with the pressure of recommending acquisitions that could go from black ink to black hole with one unforeseen mechanical failure or plumbing disaster, had wreaked havoc with her nervous system. Even the company’s doctor had advised her to scale back, and he was notoriously more corporate than caring.

To Claire’s surprise, the prospect of slowing her climb to the top had been appealing, even when she tried to remember that it was traitorous to the goals she’d set for herself at sixteen. She’d been with Bel Vista since college, had worked her way up from the most junior of executive assistants. The long hours and hectic schedule had meant postponing her personal life, particularly the romantic side of it. Even her family obligations had suffered. She’d felt guilty about that, but she hadn’t stopped to think that the stress would eventually become physical as well as emotional.

She’d grown up in a small, old-fashioned town where it had sometimes seemed that hairdresser or housewife were the only options for a female. Claire had set her sights…further. Not higher, really, just further.

Early on, she’d realized that a good education and career were her best routes out of Florence, Nebraska. She hadn’t foreseen that she might grow to miss what she’d once been desperate to leave or that settling down did not always mean settling.

Unfortunately, settling down and Bel Vista executive were not synonymous expressions. She had four weeks of vacation coming, but Drake the Snake wasn’t about to clear the way for her to take it. Her present assignment—an unpromising bed-and-breakfast in the dinky backwater town of Alouette, Michigan—was about as generous as Drake Wylie got.

Not even he seemed to expect her to come up with a business plan to buy Bay House cheap and turn it into a thriving Bel Vista operation. Meaning she had an entire week to do her research and produce a complimentary but ultimately negative report that would satisfy the fat-cat executive who’d proposed the idea in the first place.

That also gave her a week to decide which path her life should take. Tough luck for her that she’d have to do it in such an unsettling, bewildering land.

Claire let out a wry chuckle as she peered out the window at the dense forest. She wanted to find her way—not lose all direction.

Just when she’d seriously begun to wonder if she was the last person on earth, a roadside convenience store appeared up ahead. She slowed to look it over as she passed.

The Buck Stop.

Frankly, the place was a dump. Asphalt shingles, worn board siding plastered with faded advertisements. A neon beer sign in the window and one bare lightbulb over the crooked screen door. A nondescript car idled in the small gravel parking lot. Bel Vista’s upscale clientele would sooner go without their frappuccinos than shop at such a shabby joint—and that included the ones who’d read too much Hemingway and fancied themselves backwoods adventurers.

Claire sniffed. So much for civilization!

A minute later, she squinted at the odometer. Before setting off from the airport, she’d studied her map, laid out her route and calculated the mileage. Alouette, with a population of approximately sixteen hundred forsaken souls, wasn’t far now. Electricity and hot water were probably the best she could hope for out of Bay House, but her spirits lifted anyway.

As she settled back in the car seat, a movement at the side of the road caught her eye.

Bear!

The large, furry shape shifted, blending into the shadows as she sped by, but there was no mistaking the small, gamboling creature at its heels. A cub. Fearfully glancing over her shoulder, Claire touched the brake. The underbrush, briefly lit by the car’s taillights, had swallowed the hirsute pair. Slim silvery trunks stood out against the shadowy forest primeval.

“Wild Kingdom,” she whispered, struck by her reaction to the raw nature of it all. Her heart was racing, and blood sang in her ears like a timpani.

Only a second or two had passed, but she returned her attention to the road just in time to glimpse a pair of amber eyes glowing at her directly ahead. She slammed on the brakes as a tawny shape—a deer, she realized—flew across the hood as though it had sprouted wings. A thud shook the car.

Claire wrenched the wheel. The vehicle shot off the road, its rear end slewing. She thought she screamed, although the screeching sound that filled the car might have been the brakes. She’d jammed the pedal to the floorboard.

The dense forest closed around the car. Branches and twigs cracked on all sides. Overhanging boughs whisked the windshield like a perverse rural car wash. The auto slammed into something solid and came to a sudden shuddering halt, front end canted at an awkward downward angle.

Claire pushed herself off the steering wheel and cut the ignition. Her panting filled the terrible silence. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said, feeling her face with shaking fingertips. No blood or broken bones. She released the seat belt. “Fine and dandy.”

What about the deer? She remembered the awful thud. It might have been the sound of hooves on the hood. Then again, it might not. Her eyes burned; she squeezed them shut.

“Okay. First things first.” She took a deep breath, trying to ease the tight, panicky feeling in her chest. With so much foliage pressed against the windows, the interior of the car was dark and close, almost claustrophobic. She had to get out. Assess the damage. Look for the deer.

The deer. Oh, please.

“Nothing to be afraid of,” Claire said, falling back on the habit of talking through a difficult situation. It was a technique she’d used on her brother, Max, to get him to the dentist. And on her baby sister, Lyndsay, to distract her from window-rattling thunderstorms.

Once Claire was finally on her own, she’d found that the technique also worked on herself. She’d talked herself into leaving home for college and staying there even when times got tough. She’d talked herself through standing up for herself with Drake and demanding an overdue raise and promotion. Through the horrible night six months ago when word of her father’s death had come while she’d been stranded by a snowstorm in a Vermont inn. The sheer helplessness of not being there for her family had been devastating. The only comfort she’d had was her own voice, repeating into the dark silence of the guest room, “They’ll be okay, be okay, be okay….”

Claire was the oldest child in a family of eight, with one parent unreliable and the other consumed with earning a living. It had always been her job to make sure everything was okay. The house. Meals. Clothes. Appointments. School. And especially her siblings.

“But you’re okay alone,” she said firmly. She opened the door a crack, pushing experimentally at the smothering branches. They were flexible enough to bend out of the way. She poked a leg outside, followed by her head and shoulders. “The deer is okay, too. But I have to make sure.”

Her brave voice was swallowed by the overwhelming silence of a north woods night. She stood, inhaling the clear cold air. The forest was all around her. The scent was impossible to describe—nothing like the little pine-tree air freshener that hung from the rearview mirror. She could only define it as green. Earthy. Alive. But it wasn’t as quiet as she’d first thought. There were all sorts of sounds—rustling and chattering and an eerie creaking that accompanied each gust of the chilly breeze.

She swallowed nervously. “Nothing to be afraid of. Safe as houses.” With a hollow chuckle at the inappropriate expression, she crunched through the brush to check out the front of the car. The bumper was jammed into a huge fallen log. A jagged chunk had been torn out of the mossy bark, revealing a gash of fresh orangy-yellow wood so punky the splinters crumbled at her touch.

A long shallow dent creased the auto’s hood. She ran her hand along it and found a clump of hair caught in the grill. Coarse, reddish-brown hair, the silkier ends tipped in gold.

“But no blood,” she said, her stomach dropping all the same. She’d never forgive herself if—

“Don’t even think it. Just go and look.”

Claire returned to the open car door and reached inside to flick off the headlights, which weren’t illuminating much besides the fallen log. Still, the depth of the blackness increased by another degree. For a few moments, she was nearly blind. Then her eyes began to adjust. Eventually she realized that the moonlight was bright enough for her to readily see the way. Through the tangled underbrush, the road was visible—a black expanse reflecting the silvery moonlight.

She gathered the car keys, the heavy sweater she’d thrown on the passenger seat—it was mid-May, but colder than she’d expected—and her handbag. Her baggage and laptop computer were safely stowed in the trunk. She slammed the door shut and set the locks, briefly considering her cell phone. She could dial 911. But this probably didn’t qualify as an emergency. If she found the deer injured, she’d call. Or she could backtrack a mile to the Buck Stop, probably doing her version of “whistling past the graveyard” the entire way. Someone there would know the procedure.

It wasn’t until she’d hiked a short way along the narrow sand shoulder of the road that she remembered the mother bear and her cub. Dread filled her at the chance they could still be lurking nearby. She froze, fists jammed into the pockets of her sweater, wanting nothing so much as to cut and run. Lock herself inside the car. If it was stuck, she’d call AAA. If there was no AAA, she’d stay right there till morning light.

Logically, she knew that the bears were long gone. Wild animals didn’t stick around to investigate car crashes. And there weren’t grizzlies in Michigan. Even in the Rockies, where they did have them, the odds of a bear attacking a human were greatly exaggerated. On one of her first assignments after the promotion, she’d studied up on grizzlies for a thorough recommendation on a mountain ski lodge that was now a Bel Vista luxury inn frequented by the rich and famous. After all, having a celebrity eaten by a bear would be a publicity nightmare. As an employee, she was more expendable.

Claire tried to laugh. Didn’t work. “No bears,” she said out loud. She knew that the sound of a human voice should scare them away. “No bears,” she repeated, raising the volume.

She took several steps. The noise was minimal in the soft sand, so she moved onto the blacktop, stomping her feet. “Here I am, Mama Bear, heading your way.”

The road curved just ahead. She thought this was approximately where she saw the deer, though it was difficult to tell when the landscape was unrelenting forest. The evergreen trees all looked the same, thick and black-green. The deciduous trees were sparse, not yet fully leafed.

Claire spun in a circle, batting away an annoying bug, then shrugged. There was no obvious sign of the accident. No skid marks. Even the place where she’d crashed into the woods looked relatively undisturbed, as if the dense vegetation had swallowed the car whole. How could she possibly find an injured deer?

Talking all the while, she walked slowly through the long weeds that choked the roadside, using a piece of deadwood to poke at the underbrush. A small animal scurried away, too quick and sneaky for her to catch a glimpse.

She shuddered, wanting to believe that the deer had escaped unharmed. Wanting even more to be able to return to the rental car and reverse it onto the road. And what the heck, while she was at it, why not turn around and drive back to the airport and pretend this was all a bad dream? Her health and optimism would return if she could simply go home to her family—never mind that her stress levels would be quadrupled by their clingy neediness.

Claire peered into the woods. A stand of slender gray poplars stood out against the conifers, striking a chord. This was where she’d seen the big mama bear, silhouetted for an instant against the pale trunks. She’d walked far enough. The deer must have bounded away, uninjured.

“Time to turn around,” she murmured.

A funny feeling tickled her spine, creeping upward to prickle the hair at her nape. Apprehension.

Her eyes searched the forest. Was that a path?

She stepped closer. It was a path. Crowded by saplings and fresh young ferns, nearly overgrown except for a narrow trail that led deeper into the woods. An animal trail, she supposed. Deer and rabbits followed trails. Did bear?

“If they do, I surely won’t.” Claire swung around to leave, only to realize that something large and hulking was approaching through the woods. How she knew, she wasn’t sure. Animal instinct, perhaps. The beast didn’t make a lot of noise. Barely a rustling of leaves. But it was there. And it was between her and the car.

The bear.

Icy fear gripped her, rooting her feet in terror. She didn’t dare break for the road, where she’d be openly visible. And she could not make herself plunge into the deep, dark woods. Instead she raised the stick she’d picked up, praying it was true that bears rarely attacked humans but ready to defend herself all the same.

The shadowy creature halted, obscured by a thicket of yellow sumac. The air crackled with their mutual awareness. Through the leafy screen, she detected a slight glint. Eyes. Watching eyes.

A sniffling sound, low to the ground, made every hair on Claire’s body stand upright. Claws scraped across stone. The cub!

In a flash, she remembered her research. Mother bears were notoriously protective of their cubs. But running might provoke an attack. She should slowly back away. If she could get her feet to move.

The brush began to part.

Don’t run, don’t run, don’t run.

A bloodcurdling yell might scare the bear away.

Claire opened her mouth. Out came a peep so pitiful it wouldn’t frighten a rabbit.

Terrified, she dropped her handbag with a soft thud and put both hands on her measly weapon. One foot slid backward, then the other.

The bear lifted its furry head. God, it was huge. Nearly seven feet.

It made a chuffing sound.

Suddenly the cub burst from the bush and charged toward Claire, cavorting like a puppy. Claire yelped and fell, landing on her rump in the tall grass. Momentum sent her somersaulting backward, but she managed to regain her feet. The cub rolled with her, as if this were a game.

“Get away!” Claire turned and stumbled along the path, flailing her weapon from side to side. The cub was on her heels, making eager grunts and groans. It still wanted to play!

The night air seemed to shift, and she could feel the adult bear right behind her, large and hot and hulking. Oh, please, Sweet Mary, mother of God—

The bear reached past her shoulder and tugged at the flailing branch. Claire started to tug back out of sheer stubbornness, then realized how foolish, how futile—

For one instant, her mind blanked out. Then it clicked on again.

Bears didn’t reach. They swiped. And they probably didn’t tug. They snatched.

“Hey, Babe Ruth, want to turn over the weapon before you hit one out of the ballpark?” said a deep, resonant, masculine voice. Without a doubt, a human voice.

Claire let go of the branch. She turned, stiff and slow, her wobbly knee joints locked into place. “You’re not a bear.”

“Nope.”

“I thought you were a bear.” Her voice rasped like an old rusty hinge.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, lady.”

Lady? She was shaking in her shoes, fearing for her life, and this unkempt beast was calling her lady?

Even though the man wasn’t a bear, he was an astonishing sight. Not seven feet, but close to six and a half, maybe. He was huge and muscular, bearded, with thick, shaggy hair that was dark underneath but golden brown on top. No wonder she’d mistaken him for a bear. The man had never made acquaintance with a razor in his life!

“Hello, Grizzly Adams,” she said under her breath, not realizing she’d spoken until he tossed his head and laughed.

She took a step back.

His straightforward gaze swept her face. “You’re not the first to say so.”

Claire offered him a tentative smile, though she was not altogether comforted. He was a stranger, one who looked quite capable of tearing her from limb to limb. At five-eight and one hundred sixty pounds, she was no flyweight herself, but this man was huge all over, from his teeth to his immense chest and the broad hands gripped around the length of wood, right down to his gunboat feet, shod in a pair of tough leather boots with rawhide laces and thick lug soles.

Every instinct told her there was something not quite civilized about him. Perhaps it was his scent—wild and woodsy and musky, utterly foreign to her. Or perhaps it was his barbaric aura—as if he could wrestle a cougar and crunch bones between his teeth.

Claire shivered. She prided herself on her self-sufficiency and adaptability, but this encounter was too much even for her. The man was overwhelming.

Not to mention his sidekick, the bear cub. The little beast stood on its hind legs and batted at her thigh, snagging her trousers. She cried out, backing away. DKNY separates weren’t made for bear cub abuse. The lightweight wool would not hold up to even a playful clawing.

“Stop it, Scrap,” said the man. He threw Claire’s impromptu baseball bat into the brush, and the cub scrambled after it to investigate, grunting with pleasure as it worried at the undergrowth, rolling back and forth like a giddy toddler.

Claire scrubbed a hand over her face in disbelief. Nope, he was still there. Solid as a tree trunk. And watching her, his eyes predatory beneath a pair of thick brown brows. “What are you doing in the woods at night with a bear cub?” she asked, sounding accusatory rather than merely curious. Her nerves were on edge, and it showed.

“Out for a walk.” Almost self-consciously, he touched a brown paper package that lay flat against his right side, tucked inside his belt.

Claire’s insides went hollow. She thought of the paper-wrapped bottles her father and his cronies passed around the back room of the family gas station. Then she thought of the liquor signs in the window of the Buck Stop and drew herself up haughtily in defense. “I see.” Her hands shook, so she tucked them into fists inside the cuffs of her sweater.

Between the night and the man’s beard, she couldn’t tell for sure, but she thought he smiled. Briefly. “Fact is, you’re the one who’s out of place,” he said, his deep voice seeming as mild as he could make it. He squatted to pet the cub, who’d emerged from the brush dragging the stick.

Claire blinked. He’d crouched purposely, she thought. To minimize his size.

He knew she was afraid of him.

“You ran your car off the road?” he asked.

“Um, no…” She wasn’t sure she wanted him to know the full extent of the situation. Her position was too vulnerable.

“I heard the crash.” The cub tumbled head over heels, and he scratched its belly. It really was rather cute and cuddly, no bigger than an oversize teddy bear. “That’s why I backtracked.”

“I didn’t run it off the road,” she insisted. “It was your fault.”

The fleeting smile again. “Mine?”

“I saw you on the side of the road. I thought you were a bear. You distracted me.”

“That so?”

She swallowed thickly. “There was a deer—it might be injured.”

He stood, stepping closer so he loomed over her. “You hit it?”

Claire fought not to back away from his sudden aggression. Never show fear. Having faced down corporate connivers and street toughs alike, she was not a weakling. She would not cower.

“I don’t know for sure. It jumped—right over the car. But there was a thud. And it left a dent. That’s why I was looking. I thought— I mean, I had to know…”

He let out a breath and backed off to a less invasive distance. “If the deer jumped your car, it’s probably all right. There’s no sign of it?”

“N-no.”

“Was the thud hard enough to rock the car?”

“Not really. More of a glancing blow. The car went off the road because I lost control after I slammed on the brakes. I wasn’t going very fast in the first place.”

“Then the deer will probably survive.”

“Oh, thank heaven,” Claire gushed. “I’ve been having Bambi trauma flashbacks. I’d probably cry if—” She felt her cheeks coloring. Now, why had she said that? Female emotions were not valued in the cutthroat corporate world; they probably weren’t acceptable here, either.

She continued more briskly. “Tell me, is this sort of thing common in these parts? Do bear cubs substitute for domestic pets? Are the woods populated with Grizzly Adams look-alikes?” Her tone lightened. “Do deer fly?”

Do bearded, disreputable—yet strangely compelling—backwoods characters lurk in the bushes specifically to ambush spooked foreigners?

The man drew his eyebrows down, further screening his eyes. She had no clear idea of his face—it was obscured by the beard and the deep shadows. She almost wanted him to come closer again, just to see the shape of his lips. The color of his eyes.

Almost.

“Do wolves howl at the moon or the man in it?” he said, unexpectedly.

Her eyes widened. “Good question.” She hesitated, but her wry sense of humor had kicked in. “Do sharks swim at midnight?” she countered.

“Ah. Do the stars twinkle at noon?”

“If a cell phone rings in the forest and no one’s there to hear it, does it make a sound?”

He laughed. A nice, rumbling laugh. “I sure hope not, eh?” Again, he sobered quickly. Obviously he hadn’t opened the liquor yet. “Did you bring one—a cell phone?” he asked. “Have you called Triple A?”

“So there is Triple A out here in the boonies?”

“Sure.” He shifted from foot to foot. Considering his size, the movement was on a par with the tremors of an avalanche. “Jimmy Jarvi at the Five-Star Oil station takes Triple A calls. Might take him a while to reach you, is all.”

“Yeah. Like what—a week?”

“I couldn’t say. Never signed up for Triple A myself.”

“Well, I’m not sure that I need the assistance. My car’s running—”

“Do cars ever run wild?” he cut in, musing out loud, then seemed sheepish that he had. “Sorry.”

A smile twitched the corners of Claire’s mouth, but she purposely returned to the matter at hand. “I crashed into the bushes. Hit a log. If I can get the car onto the road, it should run—” her lips curved “—just fine.”

“I’ll give you a push.”

She shoved her bangs out of her eyes and looked him up and down. His clothes—a faded chambray shirt and sturdy canvas pants—were worn but clean. Perhaps he wasn’t as disreputable as all that. And he certainly looked like he could push a semitrailer out of a swamp. One-handed.

“Thank you,” she said. Wings fluttered in her stomach. A disconcerting reaction, seeing as she’d decided he was safe despite the bottle tucked inside his belt. And her judgment was always sound. Always. “I would appreciate that.”

He stepped into the long grass to let her go first. She glanced from the disturbing stranger to the playful cub, her sense of the absurd expanding proportionally. None of this was what she’d expected, but for some reason she couldn’t wait to see what came next.

There were times in every woman’s life when all she could do was roll with the punches.

Or the cub, as the case may be.

WITH THE TOE of his boot, Noah Saari gave Scrap a boost off the rotting log. The orphaned bear cub grunted with surprise and sat down hard on its round rump, confused by its abrupt removal from the center of action.

Noah leaned over the hood of the woman’s sedan, keeping one eye on Scrap and the other on the spinning front wheels. “Goose it,” he hollered over the sound of the engine, applying his muscle to the task of getting her car on the road.

The stranded city woman nodded, clenching her jaw as she gripped the wheel and brought her foot down on the gas pedal. She looked deadly serious yet still a little pale and wide-eyed. Noah smiled, oddly tickled by her reaction to him. He put his head down and pushed harder, his shoulder muscles bunching with the effort.

The wheels spun, eating through a thick layer of humus and pine needles before the car gave a lurch and began to roll backward. Too speedily. Branches snapped beneath the wheels. Noah gave a shout. “Hold up!”

He stepped over the log, one hand shading his eyes from the harsh glare of the headlights slicing through the undergrowth. The woman eased the car backward out of the brush slowly, her head swiveling to check for clearance. So she wasn’t one of those completely self-centered clear-the-roads-I’m-coming-through city drivers.

Not even close.

Noah didn’t blame her for the deer, even if she had been naive enough to mistake him for a bear. Plenty of lifelong Yoopers who knew to be on the lookout could be surprised by a fleet deer bounding from the brush. The creatures seemed to have no sense when it came to traffic, crossing right when a car came along, running the wrong way, freezing in the lights.

Stopping so abruptly might not have been the woman’s initial intention, but he gave her credit for going back to look for an injured deer. Deluxe rental car, cell phone and high-heeled boots notwithstanding, she had more guts than your usual tourist. She’d even faced down a bear. That the bear had only been Scrap, who’d never met a stranger he wouldn’t slobber over, was not the point.

The car turned onto the shoulder of the road and rolled to a stop. For a moment it idled, lights cutting a swath in the dark night. Noah thought she was going to take off with only a wave of thanks for his trouble. Normally he’d be just as happy for their contact to be as brief as possible, but with this woman… Well, he couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but she had a way about her that had engaged his dormant interest.

It might have been the jut of her jaw and the tremble in her hands when she’d raised the club, ready to knock his block off. Maybe it was the perfectly smooth column of her throat and the strong pulse beating in the hollow at the base of it when she’d studied him with rounded eyes and a tilted chin. Or most likely it was the up-front femininity of her flagrantly curvy shape, undeniably sexy beneath the rich fabrics and tailored cut of her designer styles.

Then again, it could be a matter of simple deprivation. He’d been holed up in his cabin for so long the sight of a woman, especially one who smelled like lilacs in the spring, was a shock. Probably any woman—any but Wild Rose Robbin, the only female tough enough to take on the nighttime shift at the Buck Stop—would look as good to him.

The damsel in distress flicked off the headlights and stepped from the car. She didn’t look like a typical skinny, scaredy-cat city woman any more than she acted like one, although beneath the polished veneer of a stylish haircut and manicured nails, a certain wariness—and weariness—showed in her face. But he could also see that her legs were long, her body strong. And that her breasts were full and round beneath the thick cable-knit sweater she’d buttoned all the way to her neck.

She said, “I guess that does it,” as she walked toward him, leaving the engine running.

Running wild. Like Noah’s appetite.

Her kind of satisfaction he didn’t need. He’d been battling one of his cravings all evening, but only after he’d fed and watered and bandaged his menagerie had he finally given in and made the three-mile walk to the convenience store. Henry Jussila had been there, licking his chops over the liquor bottles. Wild Rose had watched the old lumberjack like a hawk, barely acknowledging Noah as he’d gotten what he needed and left her a couple of dollars. Wild Rose wasn’t like the rest of the local busybodies; she didn’t ask too many questions in the name of the small-town friendliness that had always felt more like gossip to Noah—even before he had something to hide.

“So…” The city woman crossed her arms over her chest like she was cold, though the weather was in the fifties. It had been a warm April, melting the snow by the first of May. You couldn’t ask for more than that. “Thank you for the push.”

Noah nodded. “No problem.” For the first time in a long while, he wanted to say more. But after so many months living alone with no one to talk to but wild critters, it seemed that he’d lost his knack for conversation.

“You live around here? May I—” she took a quick, nervous breath “—offer you a ride?”

“Scrap’s never ridden in a car.”

Incredibly, her eyes got larger. “Oh, right. The bear.”

“But if you’re game,” he said, only to tease her.

She swallowed. “Sure. Why not?” Scrap was in the bushes, sniffing at the rabbit trails. “I’ve never chauffeured a bear cub before. Should he misbehave, the car’s only a rental.”

Noah laughed, surprising himself with how good it felt to have something to laugh about. Strange that his amusement should come in such an unexpected package. “That’s okay. You couldn’t take a car like that where I’m going. I live in the woods, off the beaten path a ways.”

She glanced toward the trail that led into the forest. Her eyes widened as if the path were as fraught with danger as the Chisholm trail. When she looked at him, her stare was direct but not uncomfortable. Ever since he’d come back to Alouette, battered, busted and burned, he’d endured enough curious stares to last him a lifetime.

She doesn’t gape because she doesn’t know, he reminded himself, running a hand over the lower half of his face. The beard was an obvious attempt at camouflage. A mistaken one. Even in his isolation, he’d heard enough of the rumors to realize it had only upped his curiosity factor with the townsfolk.

“Then you’re an honest-to-goodness backwoods-man?” The twinkle of whimsy returned to her eyes. “Like the ones in Tall Tales of the North Country?” She shrugged. “I picked up a rather outlandish paperback at the airport.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“I’m in awe.” A wide smile transformed her somewhat plain face. She had character and smarts—he’d seen that right off—but her natural smile and the quirky sense of humor that accompanied it made her seem less serious and more attractive. Almost pretty. He thought she needed reason to smile more often.

Like he had any right to give advice on the subject.

“Don’t be. I’m not Paul Bunyan.” Noah dropped his hand to his belt. Tourists tended to consider the natives of Upper Michigan quaint in an uneducated, unsophisticated way. He wasn’t willing to be the source of their entertainment. All he wanted was to live his life as simply, decently and privately as possible.

Which didn’t allow for women with wide eyes, wide smiles and wide, curvy, made-for-a-man’s-hand hips.

Her eyes, having followed the direction of his lowered hand, became dark and serious again. “Then I’m off.” She spun on her heel and walked briskly to the car, all business. The way he’d thought he preferred it, right? “According to my map, I should be within a mile or two of Alouette. Is that right?”

“You’re on track,” he said, sorry for her departure all the same. It was only his loneliness, he decided. There were better cures. For one, he could pay his folks a long-overdue visit as soon as they got back to town. Maybe even drop in on old friend or two. It might be time.

“Well…” She paused beside the door for a moment, seeming to search for a suitable expression of gratitude. “Thank you,” she said, simple and sincere, a woman after his own heart. Which was strictly a manner of speaking, he reminded himself.

“Welcome.” He sounded suitably gruff, even though he wanted to ask her name or her destination. It was safer not to. This way, they’d never meet again.

For the sake of his peace of mind, that was best.

She slid behind the wheel and he closed the door after her, the soft thunk overriding the moment when she might have said something more. Behind the glass, she blinked at him, her lips slightly parted. Get going, he made himself think so she would read the sentiment on his face and take him for no more than a grouchy backwoods hermit, a role he’d filled well for the past two years.

Her glance dropped again to his belt, and she turned resolutely away, putting the car in gear with a sure thrust of her hand. She peered over the hood, tapping the horn for warning. Scrap was still snuffling at the underbrush, so Noah gave her a wave to send her on her way.

She went, not looking back except for one quick flash of her eyes in the side mirror. They were blue, he saw, deeply blue as a spring-fed lake on a sunny day. His body stirred with renewed interest, but he tamped it down, telling himself the pretty color of her eyes didn’t mean jack. Hell, he could look at the genuine thing fifty yards outside his cabin door. He sure didn’t need to get tangled up with a woman because her eyes were clear-lake blue. Nor because her smile was soft and her heart was courageous and her body was the generous sort that could keep a man warm at night.

CHAPTER TWO

“THESE DIRECTIONS are ridiculous.” Claire double-checked her notes before tossing them aside and edging the car toward what might—or might not—turn out to be Bayside Road. There were no road signs to speak of, but her instructions were to make a sharp right at the Berry Dairy ice-cream cone stand and continue up the hill till she came to the Neptune gateposts. “Whatever happened to street addresses?” she wondered, turning the wheel hand over hand.

Alouette was a nice little town, she’d give it that. Picture-postcard pretty in the daytime, she suspected, when spring sunshine would glance off the dancing waters to brighten the bayside business district of red-and cream-colored brick and stone buildings.

But for now the town was dark and silent. At the marina, black-as-midnight waves slapped at the hulls of boats that had been battened down with sails tightly furled. Even so, it was surprisingly easy for Claire to imagine herself there, sipping coffee in a café that overlooked the harbor. Idling away her time. Doing nothing.

She sighed.

The road to Bay House rose steeply through another thick pine forest. Interspersed with a few maples and birch, the trees densely carpeted the hillside, making the twining roadway seem insignificant in comparison. Claire was beginning to understand that this was a land where nature always overpowered humankind.

She was glad to see that paved driveways had been carved out of the wilderness. Lawns even—vast stretches of them, lit by old-fashioned globe streetlights. The handful of houses she glimpsed through the trees were more handsome and substantial than the humble frame bungalows she’d seen down below. She shifted behind the wheel. Given the upscale neighborhood, Bay House might yet turn out to be a prospect.

At the top of the hill she found the Neptune gateposts—matching sea-god statuary set atop red stone bases gone green with moss and twined with vines. The connecting wrought-iron fence was clogged with a tangle of shrubbery and trees that obscured her view of the house. The gate, an elaborate construction running to rust, stood open, one side pulled halfway off its hinges and dipping lopsided into unmown grass.

“Here I yam,” Claire announced as she always did, clicking to low beams as she drove through the gate. “All that I yam.”

It was a silly saying that had become habit, one she’d begun with her first assignment for Bel Vista. She’d been sent to a ritzy Cliffwalk mansion in Newport because the owners were going bankrupt and the property was available at a bargain-basement price, a “cheap” three mil or so. Coming from modest Midwestern beginnings as she had, she’d been awed and intimidated by the grandeur of how the other half—make that the upper two percent—lived. Although not all her subsequent assignments were as swank, reminding herself that she was worthy exactly as she was helped tame her butterflies.

At a glance she knew that Bay House, rising before her on a grassy knoll, was not so grand, though it was a mansion. The bed-and-breakfast was plentiful in size, made of red sandstone in the Victorian style with several wings, steep peaked dormers and even a turret, its witch-capped roof thrust high against the diamond-laden sky.

A pair of wrought-iron lampposts flanked the walkway, but they were not lighted. The only illumination provided for guests was the dull glow of a solitary fixture shining beside the front door. Saving on electricity?

Claire drove once around the circular driveway, then parked in a paved area alongside several other cars and a well-used pickup truck. She got out, making a mental note of the charming carriage house set back among the trees that bordered the neighboring property. Wondering about the commercial zoning ordinance, she peered through the branches, studying the house next door. A purring black sports car arrived, headlights briefly illuminating the home’s immense white facade. A well-dressed but rumpled man in his mid-thirties lurched out of the car. Claire lifted a hand to wave—never too soon to be friendly with neighbors who might object about Bel Vista moving in—but he threw her a sour, slit-eyed glare and disappeared inside.

“Okay for you,” she said, shrugging. She ducked inside the car to slip the keys from the ignition and reach for her purse.

Her palm landed flat on the passenger seat.

Where was her purse?

“Oh, no,” she moaned under her breath, shooting from the car to check the back seat and trunk. A futile effort. She remembered dropping the purse when that Grizzly Adams character had emerged from the underbrush. Between the shock and distraction and her somersault with Scrap, she’d forgotten all about it.

Good going. What now?

She stared at Bay House, exasperated with herself. The building remained dark and quiet—no sign of a welcome. Well, then. She’d try checking in, and if they wouldn’t take her at her word and demanded identification, she’d have to backtrack in search of the purse. In the meantime, it wasn’t likely anyone would stumble across it on such a little-used road in a sparsely populated area.

“Hoo.” Claire blew out a disgusted breath while hauling her baggage from the trunk. The prospect of facing the wilderness again was disheartening when all she wanted was civilization and its creature comforts.

No other creatures need apply, she silently added, thinking of her rescuer and his bear cub. She had plenty of decisions to make without a big, male, Sasquatch-like creature complicating matters. Even one who had rock-hard muscles and a whimsical sense of humor.

With a piece of luggage in each hand, her computer satchel slung over one shoulder and her carry-on over the other, Claire headed toward the house, automatically taking in its architectural details. Bay windows with leaded mullions, carved stone designs, copper gutters and drainpipes—all very impressive. The place was in dire need of upkeep, but the basic structure appeared sound. Heaven only knew what nasty surprises lurked within. She was experienced enough with reno budgets to know that hidden problems in an older building could double or triple the initial estimate.

A wide front porch stretched from the tower past a bay window. The front door had a knocker and a doorbell, but she tried the blackened brass knob and found it open.

The foyer was large, dim, stuffed with furniture. It looked more like a Victorian brothel than a hotel lobby, complete with swags and furbelows, fringed lamp shades, velvet settees and armchairs. Family pictures and dingy oil paintings crowded busy wallpaper. Claire blinked at the yellowed pattern. It was predominated by fairies and naked nymphs draped in gauze. Ugh.

“Hello?” She set down her suitcase and advanced through a jungle of ferns and other assorted foliage. “Hello?” she called again.

On her left, carved-wood double doors remained closed. On her right were glass doors that had been left open to a dining room. A wide, carpeted staircase loomed before her, but she continued past it to a row of closed doors in the narrowing hallway. She was about to knock on the one that bore a tarnished brass nameplate labeled Office when a long, wheezy snore came from the vicinity of the fern jungle.

Claire retraced her steps. Closer inspection revealed a pair of pajama-clad legs extending out of the greenery, the splayed feet clad in hand-knitted red socks riddled with holes. Poking from the largest was a fat pink toe.

Apparently this was Claire’s evening to roust men from bushes. She peeled away the crisscrossed straps of her bags and dropped them to the carpet with a jarring thud. No response from the sleeper except another snore.

She inched closer. Lifted a palm frond for a better look. A tubby little man slumped in a chair, swaddled in a robe and a crocheted throw, his short, thick fingers clasped atop a chest that rose and fell with each congested breath. Choork, went the inhale with a fluttering of nostrils. Choo, came the whistling exhale, making his moist lower lip vibrate.

Claire’s amusement showed in her tired smile. The man was elfin, with sticky-out ears, a round face and a funny button nose. Wispy white hair made a tonsure around his head.

Choork…

She cleared her throat. “Hello…sir? Could you please wake up?”

Choo…

“I’m dead tired,” she said.

Choork…

She tickled the knob of his nose with the frond.

“Choo!” he said, eyes popping open. He sprang out of the chair.

Claire leaped backward, her hands flying up in defense.

“Wha—whu—who—” the little man said, cartwheeling his arms. The jungle rustled around him.

Claire took another step back. “I’m, uh, Claire Levander. You’re expecting me? I have reservations?”

“Umf.” The fellow grunted suspiciously, rocking back on his heels. “Howzat?” He rubbed a finger beneath his nose. Strands of hair floated around his head as he swayed forward onto the balls of his feet, blinking at Claire. The bare toe curled into the carpet. “Whozzat?”

“Claire Levander,” she repeated, resisting the urge to steady the confused elf.

His eyes brightened as he continued rocking to and fro. “Ar-har, Miss Lavender.”

“Levander.” She pushed her bangs out of her eyes.

“Righto. Here we are.” He’d rescued a registry book from its upside-down position on the carpet and was squinting at the crumpled pages. “You got a pen?”

She patted her pockets. “No. You see, I’ve lost my purse. But I can—”

The man slapped the book shut and dumped it on the chair. “Never mind that. I’ll take you straight oop-stairs.”

“Oop?” she said, becoming as addled as her host.

He looked her up and down, his small blue eyes twinkling. “You’ll want the bridal suite, eh?” His accent was thick—somewhere between Fargo and Canadian.

“I’m not on a honeymoon.”

“No groom?” He frowned at the front door as if expecting one to burst through. “Okeydokey, that’s prefect. I’ll put you in Valentina’s bridal suite.”

“No! I mean, yes. I’m alone. That is, I’m—” Claire caught her lower lip between her teeth. She hadn’t planned to reveal herself as a Bel Vista executive. Not yet. But the elf seemed confused about her reservations, and she did have business cards she could show him. She kept a slim sliver case of them in her purse, but there were extras in her computer satchel.

“Count on Toivo, Miss Lavender. He kin getcha one.” The strange little man toddled off to grab one of her suitcases, then started carting it up the stairs.

One? One what? Did he mean a husband? And who was Toivo? The elf? Claire grabbed the other pieces of luggage, tucking the bags under her arms. “Wait. I don’t want a groom. Just a room. A regular room will do fine. If you have newlyweds arriving…”

He huffed and puffed, mounting the wide, steep steps. “Nope. Newdywebs won’t touch the bridal. They think it’s bad luck.”

Newdywebs? Claire stopped and shook her head. She had to be hearing things.

From below, there came a thud and then the creak of a door opening. Claire glanced over the banister. A young woman, leaning heavily on the doorknob, poked her tousled red head into the hallway. She looked up, blinking, saw Claire and said, “Stay out of the bridal suite,” in a sleepy voice. “’S cursed.”

Claire’s skin felt pinpricked. “Pardon—?”

The door shut abruptly.

“Crazy rumor.” The rosy man elf was standing at the top of the stairs, bobbing on the balls of his feet, waiting for Claire to decide. He beamed. “Best room in the house.”

“Is there anything else available?”

“There are the attic rooms. Kinda small. Lootsa dust. You got elegies?”

After a beat, she said, “Allergies? Not so far as I know. But I’d really rather—” Nonsense, she thought, following the man. She didn’t believe in luck, good or bad. You made your own future, and hers didn’t include either a groom or a curse. “Okay. I’ll take the bridal suite.”

“We’ll need the key. Em’s always hiding it from Shari.”

Claire’s muscles went lax as she slumped against a wall papered in a glitzy but faded red and gold Chinese design that clashed terribly with the fairies below. Fatigue, complicated by confusion, was hitting her hard. She dropped her luggage. “You don’t have a key?” She couldn’t summon up the strength to ask about Em and Shari. The redhead, maybe? And what was that about a curse?

“It’s around here somewheres.”

Claire wove together a few of the tangled threads. “But if this is the only room available and you knew I was coming…”

“Ar-har, here it is!” After unsuccessfully rummaging through the contents of a narrow étagère, the elf had found the key at the bottom of an urn full of musty peacock feathers. He sneezed, scrubbed at his nose, then inserted the old-fashioned latchkey in a door at the end of the hall. “Voilà. The bridal suite, Miss Lavender.” He disappeared inside to switch on the lights.

“Levander…” Claire’s voice faded as she stepped into the room. The bridal suite was large and opulent yet serene, scrupulously dusted and polished from the facets of the crystal chandelier to the gleaming dark wood floor. A massive four-poster bed dominated the room. Its linens looked freshly bleached and starched, stark white and topped with a fancy crocheted spread as fragile as frost on a windowpane. A more colorful quilt was folded at the foot.

Her pajama-clad host was bringing in the luggage. Despite her exhaustion, Claire went to the glass doors that opened onto a small balcony with a spiked iron railing.

Oh, my.

The view was amazing. Beyond the wild mess of a backyard garden, a sheer cliff dropped away to the vast expanse of Lake Superior. The water glistened like obsidian beneath a glowing wedge of quarter moon. On the opposite side of the harbor, beyond more steep rocks and treetops, was the blinking beacon of a lighthouse.

Trying unsuccessfully to prop up heavy eyelids, she lingered to listen to the surf swish against the rocks, the sough of the wind in the pines. The natural rhythms were hypnotic. It wasn’t long before her eyes had drifted shut. A little bit of peace settled inside her, like a smooth round pebble floating to the bottom of a murky pond. If she stayed at the inn long enough, Claire wondered dreamily, would the peacefulness spread like rings on the surface of the water? Would her muddy future come clear?

She gave herself another little shake and returned inside. “It’s a beautiful view,” she told her host, who was beaming at her, practically rubbing his hands with glee. “And a lovely room. I’ll sign in properly tomorrow morn—”

“We don’t stand on celery at Bay House,” he said, moving to the door. “I’ll tell Emmie to let you sleep as late as you like, Miss Lavender. Otherways she’ll be in here at seven a.m. with a breakfast tray, trying to get a lookie-loo.”

“I’d appreciate that, Mr….”

The elf’s white hair swirled around his head when he nodded. “Toivo Whitaker. Me ’n’ my sister Em own this place.”

Claire’s smile froze as he swung the door shut. That was unfortunate. Two elderly owners, apparently naive and good-hearted, and a run-down mansion set on a fabulous piece of waterfront acreage. On the surface, it seemed to be a perfect situation from Bel Vista’s point of view—a juicy plum of property ripe for the plucking.

Already Claire suspected that she’d dread making this report. From what she’d seen so far, Bay House was unique, even magical, like an enchanted castle out of time.

Out of time? Oh, she hoped not.

Unfortunately, it was her job to deliver the verdict.

CLAIRE ROSE from the deep cottony down of sleep like a butterfly fluttering toward a sunbeam. A delicious warmth touched her face—sunlight, streaming through the balcony doors. Her lids trembled as she moved languidly beneath a crisp sheet that smelled like the outdoors. Gradually she grew aware of muffled voices in the hallway. Without coming fully awake, she concentrated to listen.

“She’s not supposed to be in the bridal suite,” said a woman, sounding cross. Her accent was similar to the elf’s. “I told you to put her in the blue room.”

“The couple from Canada are in the blue room.” Toivo Whitaker, Claire thought sleepily. He was clearly befuddled, which was probably his regular state of affairs.

“They’re in the green room, you silly old man.”

“Then who’s in the red room?”

“The fisherman from Minneapolis. I switched him because of the wasp nest. If you’d gotten the bug bomb like I asked…” The voices faded as Toivo and his sister moved along the hall.

Smiling, Claire rolled over and buried her face in the sweet-smelling pillowcase. She’d slept better than she had in months. It must have been her exhaustion, because the mattress was terribly soft and lumpy.

The sunshine and rhythmical sound of the waves rocked her in a cradle of somnolence. She was drifting toward sleep again when another person paused outside the door. “It’s ain’t fair,” said a female voice, loud enough to be easily heard. Thud. Something had dropped to the carpet outside the door. Bam. The door rattled.

From a kick, Claire decided, wondering if she should get up. But the woman was moving away, mumbling as she went. “Ain’t fair, ain’t fair, ain’t fair…”

Claire frowned. How odd.

She remembered the sleepy redhead who’d muttered the warning about a curse. Toivo, who’d been downright scatterbrained about her reservation but had then insisted on the bridal suite with a curious glee.

Argh, what nonsense. Sheer fancy. There was no reason she shouldn’t enjoy every comfort the room provided, especially if they were going to move her out as soon as she showed her face.

Claire sighed and rubbed her cheek against the pillowcase. Sun dried. Not many Bel Vista hotels could provide such a service.

The heavy footsteps returned, traipsing in the direction of the staircase. “Ain’t fair, ain’t fair, ain’t fair…”

A comfortable silence descended. Shush, shush, went the waves. Shush, shush, shush… Birds twittered in the sunshine. Somewhere in the hall, a grandfather clock ticked, steady and sonorous.

I yam what I yam and I yam here, Claire said silently, welcoming the pleasure that accompanied the familiar statement. For good or for bad, I yam here.

She slid an arm beneath the pillow, thoughts drifting to her encounter with the woodsman the way iron filings are drawn to a magnet. My, but he’d been large. And so very masculine. She shivered, wondering how he’d look in the daylight.

There was her purse to retrieve.

She might see him again.

Did she want to?

As Claire weighed that question, an uncomfortable awareness slowly came over her. Her scalp began to prickle. As if…ugh, no. She shoved the creepy feeling away, but it returned.

It was as if someone was staring at her.

She opened one eye and squinted, scanned the room through her lashes. One look at the opposite wall and suddenly she was wide-awake, propped up on her elbows, her heart pounding wildly.

The bride! The curse!

It was only a painting, she realized, flushing at her ridiculous overreaction. Yet her distaste remained. From the far wall, a bride stared at her, looking cold and calm and severe in her snowy lace garments, as glacial as an iceberg. Claire recognized the French doors that were the bride’s backdrop, propped open to the blue vista of the big lake and infinite sky. It should have been a lovely painting, the blond bride serene in her wedding raiment, and instead it was terrible. Forbidding. Chilling.

Cursed.

“Get a grip.” Hugging herself, Claire climbed out of the high bed, her bare feet landing on one of the threadbare needlepoint rugs scattered over the hardwood floor. She reached for the sweater she’d carelessly tossed into her open suitcase when she’d changed for bed. The night before, she’d been too tired to notice the grouping of old family portraits that hung on the bridal suite’s fireplace wall. And she’d slept fine. So why be bothered now?

“Psych out,” she said. Scowling at the portrait in spite of her goose bumps, she slid the sweater on over her nightgown. The bride’s cold blue stare had leached all the warmth from the room.

It’s only the power of suggestion, Claire told herself, stepping over for a closer look. If she’d been told this was a blessed bridal suite, she’d still be in bed, relaxed to the core, lolling in the sunshine like a fat, lazy cat.

“No, I wouldn’t.” She stood before the marble mantel and lifted her chin to confront the coldhearted bride. “You’re a frigid, deadening old witch, aren’t you? I pity the man who married you. No wonder the room is cursed.”

“The room’s not cursed.”

Claire swung around in surprise. She hadn’t heard the door open.

“Eh, that Toivo.” The short, round older woman who stood in the doorway with a breakfast tray had to be the elf’s sister, Emmie. Although her eyes snapped with sharp intellect and her hair was a dark iron gray scraped into a severe braid, the two innkeepers were as alike as a matched pair of salt and pepper shakers.

“Tch, tch. I’ve told the old coot not to carry tales,” Emmie Whitaker said with a peppery flare, stooping to retrieve the folded newspaper on the doorstep before advancing into the room. Mingled scents of hot coffee, fresh orange juice and a sweet, spicy cinnamon bun rose from the tray, making Claire’s mouth water.

The innkeeper set the tray on a side table and fussily rearranged the decorative crocheted bedspread Claire had laid aside. “I’m Emmaline Alice Whitaker. Call me Emmie—everyone does.” She poured a cup of coffee, added cream and two lumps of sugar without asking. “Bay House is my family home. Lived here all my life, along with Toivo. Our younger sister ran away to California. Been married three times, if you can imagine, and had a baby with each husband. I’ve never been married, myself. Looking after Toivo and Bay House is enough for any woman.”

Claire inhaled the steam from the coffee before taking a grateful sip, nearly moaning with bliss. She’d drastically cut down, but the first shot of morning caffeine was an indulgence she couldn’t deny herself. This coffee was heavenly—rich and strong and sweet.

Emmie’s lips tucked into a tight, satisfied smile. “We’re plain coffee drinkers at Bay House. It’s the Finnish way. Don’t be asking me for fancy teas or Italian espresso.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The hostess nodded. “You’ll be down soon for breakfast, Miss Lavender?”

Claire offered her hand. “It’s Levander, actually. Claire Levander.”

“Levander?” Emmie’s hand was plump and strong. “Leave it to Toivo,” she said, tsking again.

“Well, you see, I lost my purse, so I didn’t check in properly,” Claire began. “I’ll need to go and search for it first thing—”

“Goodness gracious. I’d send Toivo looking, but Lord knows what that goofball would come back with. Why don’t you tell us all about it at breakfast? The usual suspects are waiting to meet you, Miss Levander.”

Claire glanced at the sweet roll. It was the size of a softball, oozing with frosting. “Breakfast? Isn’t this breakfast?”

Emmie clucked in disbelief. “Coffee and a roll? Goodness, no. My dear mama, bless her soul, would spin in her grave if I served such a miserly breakfast at Bay House.” She paused at the door, casting a surreptitious glance toward the bridal portrait. “You get dressed and come right down. Never mind that silly talk of curses. It’s pure balderdash.”

Claire, warmed by coffee, was inclined to agree, even though she still felt the bride’s stare like an icicle between the shoulder blades. She turned to look at the portrait. “Who is she?”

Emmie hesitated, smoothing the gingham-checked apron she wore over an orange fleece track suit. “Valentina Whitaker, younger sister to Ogden Whitaker, my great-grandfather, the lumber baron who built Bay House. Poor Valentina was gone long before Toivo and I were born to Mama Mae and Ogden Three.”

“Gone?”

Emmie’s round face crinkled into a hard knot like a dried apple. “Valentina Whitaker jumped off the cliff on her wedding night,” she said through pursed lips, and firmly shut the door behind her.

Well, that cuts it, Claire thought cheerfully as she made her way downstairs fifteen minutes later, carrying a tray with a drained coffee cup and plate empty of all but crumbs and a few daubs of frosting. I’ve been cursed—doomed to throw myself off a cliff on my wedding night.

Oh, the horror, the horror!

She found several houseguests gathered in the dining room around a long, oval bird’s-eye maple table. Their chatter grew silent when she entered.

“Good morning.” Uneasy with their stares, she concentrated on the room, instead. Red stone walls and too many heavy wood furnishings gave it an oppressive feel. The bay window was shrouded by ivy on the outside and heavy brocade drapes on the inside, letting in little light. Trim back the ivy, take out the curtains and half the furniture, and it would be a charming room.

“Morning.” Toivo piped from the head of the table. “Did ya sleep good, Miss Lavender?”

“Wonderfully, thank you, Mr. Whitaker.”

He chuckled. “No bad dreams?”

The pale blue gaze of the spare, middle-aged fellow at Toivo’s left dropped to his plate. The petite redhead who’d warned Claire about the curse watched her with a mischievous pink rosebud of a smile. Two others, clearly tourists, looked up from their blueberry pancakes with pleasant, uninformed expressions.

“Only one,” Claire said as she put the tray on a sideboard and took a seat at the table. She lowered her voice to a sepulchral level. “I dreamed I was falling. It was black and cold. I could hear waves breaking upon the rocks. But I kept falling.” Ever so slowly she drew her napkin from the place setting, dragging out the suspense. “Falling,” she intoned. “Endlessly falling…”

The redhead’s eyes had gone round. She was young—early twenties at most. “Falling?” she squeaked.

Toivo’s moist bottom lip hung open. “B-but how—”

“For gosh sakes.” Emmie Whitaker marched into the room with a platter full of pancakes. “Can’t you tell that our new guest is pulling your legs?”

The young woman let out a thankful laugh. “Oh, you had me going! I thought the curse had taken a new form.” She leaned across the table, holding a small, pale hand out to Claire. Her manner was forthright, but her grip was weak. “Cassia Keegan. I’m renting a room here in Bay House.” She nodded toward the staircase. “Didn’t mean to put a scare into you last night, but I thought you should know about—” she hunched her shoulders and dropped her voice in imitation of Claire “—the curse.”

“Here we go again.” Emmie scowled as she forked pancakes and sausages onto Claire’s plate. “Let’s not bother Miss Levander with that nonsense, please, Cassia.”

“I’d like to hear the story,” Claire said, stopping Emmie at two of each. The tourists, introduced as the Bickermanns from Canada, professed their interest.

Cassia’s eyes danced. Compressing her lips, she looked expectantly at Emmie, waiting for the go-ahead.

“So there is a cur—a, uh, legend?” Claire prodded. “I saw the bride’s portrait. It’s…beautiful.” In a Snow Queen sort of way.

The innkeeper tilted her head, weighing the word legend versus the less hospitable curse. Finally she gave the redheaded girl a cursory nod and departed for the kitchen.

Clearly, Cassia was eager to tell the tale. Bouncy auburn waves curled around her heart-shaped face as she glanced from face to face, building the suspense. Her expressive eyes were hazel shaded toward gold and tipped up at the corners like a cat’s. A palpable energy coursed through her slender body when her gaze reached Claire.

Cassia inhaled, her cheeks pinkening with excitement. “If the prophecy of Valentina Whitaker is true,” she announced with utter seriousness, “you will be married before the year is out.”

Claire swallowed. Her fingers clamped reflexively on the lever of the syrup jug. “Pardon?”

Cassia chortled. “Yep. I did try to warn you, Claire. But there’s nothing you can do now. It’s Valentina’s prophecy.”

Gleefully, Toivo quoted, “‘Sleep all night in the bridal room, Turn of year, thee shall have a groom.’”

“Or…” Cassia said.

“Turn of year you’ll be a groom,” said the quiet man at Toivo’s elbow. “Won’t catch me sleeping there.” He wadded up his napkin and left rather hastily.

“Don’t mind Bill’s manners,” Toivo said. “He’s afraid Shari’s got plans for him.”

Claire was mopping up the syrup that had run over the lip of her plate. “Shari?”

“The maid, Shari Shirley. She works here part-time,” Cassia explained. “You’ll run into her soon enough, Claire. She’s forever trying to spend the night in Valentina’s room, but Emmie won’t let her near it, even to clean.”

“I see. And why was I so lucky to land there?”

Toivo’s cheeks became ruddy. “A small mix-up on my part.”

Dishes clashed in the kitchen. “Huh!” Emmie came out, drying her sudsy hands on a towel. You were supposed to be in the blue room, Miss Levander. Color-blind numbskull,” she scolded Toivo, tapping his bald spot. She snatched away his plate as soon as he stuffed a last bite of pancakes into his mouth.

“You should put married couples in the bridal suite,” one of the Canadians suggested.

“Oh, no,” Cassia breathed.

“Goodness gracious, no,” Emmie said.

“Why not?” Mrs. Bickermann asked.

Cassia shook her head. “It’s part of the legend. ‘Happily married, bill and coo, Pay the piper, sorrow’s due.’”

“You can’t believe that stuff.” Claire looked at her sodden pancakes and decided she couldn’t eat despite her usually healthy appetite.

“Absolutely not.” Emmie turned on her heel and returned to the kitchen with her hands full of dishes, using a generously rounded hip to bump open the swinging door.

“It’s happened,” Cassia vowed. “Single women have married, and couples have split up.” Her eyes glowed like those of a child telling ghost stories beside a campfire. “Why do you think Emmie keeps the door locked?”

“It wasn’t locked last night after I moved in. I didn’t have the key.” Claire laughed nervously, wishing for another shot of caffeine to bolster her rocky reactions.

On cue, Emmie entered with another cup, fixed the way Claire liked it. She accepted it with thanks.

Emmie patted her apron pocket. “I’m keeping charge of the key from here on out.” She shot a scowl at her oblivious brother. “Even when there’s no reason to lock the barn door after the cow’s got out.”

Claire smiled into her coffee. “Does that make me the cow?”

“Goodness, no. It means that you may as well sleep in Valentina’s room for the duration of your stay. No use moving you now.”

Cassia waved a hand. “You’re already cursed!”

“Now stop that, pikku,” Emmie scolded on her way to the kitchen. “You’ll be frightening off our guests.”

“No worry here,” Claire said. “I can assure you that I have no plans for marriage. Besides, it’s already May. There’s no way I’ll meet and marry my groom before the turn of the year. I don’t move that fast.” Was she protesting too much?

Cassia tossed her curls. “I almost envy you for getting the bridal suite. Almost.” She flashed a playful grin. “Personally, I’m not ready to settle down. I’ve got to take a good sampling of all the available prospects first. Woof!”

Claire shared Cassia’s laughter, appreciating the other woman’s enthusiasm for the opposite sex even though Claire’s reluctance was a matter of straightening out priorities, not picking and choosing. Her opportunities in that area had been limited. She’d decided early that dating within the company was too complicated. And since her life was the company…

Priority one, Claire thought. Change that.

It was a sad state of affairs when one’s love life was so barren Valentina’s prophecy had zero chance of working.

After chatting about their planned daytime activities and the Whitakers’ open invitation to board game night, the Bickermanns left the table escorted by Toivo, who was giving them directions to the Gull Rock lighthouse.

Claire looked across the table at Cassia as the girl settled back, realizing for the first time that the redhead sat in a wheelchair. “There must be more to the Valentina legend?” she said, returning to the subject now that they were alone.

With a deft touch on the electric controls of her chair, Cassia wheeled herself closer. “Valentina Whitaker was supposed to be married in the spring of 1914, in the rose garden of Bay House. But her bridegroom never showed up for the wedding. Valentina waited in her bedroom—your bedroom—watching from the balcony as the guests came and went. She waited and watched all day and into the night. There was no word until midnight, when one of the men Ogden Whitaker had sent out searching returned with the news that Valentina’s fiancé had eloped with another woman.”

“Oh.” A quicksilver chill spilled along Claire’s spine.

“Yep. The story says that Valentina went schizo.” Cassia’s eyes widened. “She carried on like a lunatic, cursing her fiancé and his new bride to eternal misery, swearing that never again would an unmarried woman suffer in Bay House the way she had. Ogden and his wife tried to restrain her, but she ran outside in her wedding dress and threw herself off the cliff.” The redhead dramatically flung back her head, her hands sweeping wide. “Since then, Valentina’s room has become a Whitaker family legend!”

“Hmm. It’s a stunning tale.” Claire couldn’t hide her skepticism.

“It’s true. All true. Emmie has shown me the old photos of Valentina. There’s even one of her groom—her intended groom.”

“But the curse itself? It must be apocryphal.”

“I don’t know what that means, but it sure is some wild, wacky stuff!” Cassia paused, then leaned forward to continue in a whisper. “Emmie doesn’t like to talk about it, even though the legend has lasted all these years. Everyone around knows that any single woman who sleeps the night in Valentina’s room will marry soon after. It supposedly happened to lots of the Whitaker relations over the years, before Bay House was opened to the public. At least that’s what I’ve heard. Since then, Emmie usually refuses to book the room. But every once in a while, if the other rooms are full, or if Toivo gets left in charge…” Cassia shrugged.

“I’m not going to worry about it.”

“Don’t you want to get married?”

Claire laughed off the question. Given her present quandary, she wasn’t ready to commit to so much as an answer. “Not as the result of a curse!”

“Well, y’know, lots of women wouldn’t call it a curse. Shari’s been campaigning to stay overnight in Valentina’s room for months. There was even a woman from Grosse Pointe who wanted to pay Emmie a thousand bucks for the opportunity!”

“Did she allow it?”

“Nope. Emmie said it wasn’t right, that grooms couldn’t be bought.” Cassia hunched her shoulders. “I think it was because the lady from downstate was about fifty and as crazed as a rabid pit bull. She might have been the one to put a stop to the legend! Didn’t matter that the Whitakers needed the money for a new furnace. Emmie’s stubborn that way.”

And Toivo, Claire thought, is mischievous that way. She set aside her cup and saucer, deciding to change the subject. “You said you rent a room, Cassia. I thought Bay House is strictly a bed-and-breakfast. How long have you been here?” Was it too intrusive to ask if she had a lease?

“Not too long,” Cassia said. “I was totally dying to live on my own, away from my parents.” She rolled her eyes, looking like a typical young adult impatient to assert her independence. “Bay House was the best I could do. For now. Emmie’s bossy, but not as bad as my mother, that’s for sure.”

“Are there other long-term tenants?”

“Just Bill Maki. He has an attic room. And there’s Roxy, the Whitakers’ niece, but she lives in the garage apartment. No worries there. You couldn’t pay Roxy to come near Valentina’s room.”

As the two women talked, they moved toward the large but crowded front hall, Cassia’s chair catching momentarily on the fringed edge of a Persian rug. “Where do Emmie and Toivo sleep?” Claire asked when Cassia waved her off from helping. She was trying to gauge the number of bedrooms.

“On the first floor, near me.” Cassia pointed as she spoke. Her face was bright with interest and friendliness. “There’s the front parlor—that’s open to all the guests. Then the office, with Emmie’s and Toivo’s rooms behind it. Then me, then the garden room that opens to the back yard, and on the other side is the kitchen, the pantry and the back stairs.”

“How many bedrooms up?”

“Five altogether. The green, the yellow, the red and the blue.”

A veritable rainbow. “Plus the bridal suite.”

“Yeah, the white room, I guess you’d say.” Cassia giggled.

“There’s no way I’m getting married when I don’t even have a boyfriend,” Claire murmured, momentarily unaware she’d spoken out loud. When she realized she had, she looked sheepishly at Cassia, who only smiled.

“Join the club, sister.” They laughed.

“I have to go,” Claire remembered. “I lost my purse…”

“How’d that happen?”

Claire shuddered. “I nearly hit a deer on the drive to Alouette. Just past that place—the Buck Stop? It was awful.”

Cassia shrugged. “Heck, that happens all the time. The woods up here are thick with deer. You have to keep your eyes open, driving at night.”

“I was kind of, um…distracted. My car ran off the road.”

“But how’d you lose the purse?”

Toivo was coming in the front door. “I got out of the car,” Claire said hurriedly. “Then there was this man—”

Cassia’s brows arched. She bounced in her chair. “A man? Did you say a man?”

“What man?” said Toivo, hands tucked into the pair of red suspenders that held up his baggy work pants. “The curse is already working, eh?”

“No!” Claire hadn’t meant to get into this, even though her curiosity was full to bursting. Not much choice now. “Last night I met a man in the woods. At first I thought he was a bear—it was rather dark, and he had a beard—but it turned out to be no big deal. He helped get my car back on the road, is all.”

Cassia wheeled closer. “What was his name? Was he good-looking?”

“I didn’t get his name. And between all his hair and all his—” Muscle. Her face was growing warm. “All the darkness, I mean….”

“Ooh. A mystery man.”

“No. Really. He was—” Claire didn’t know why her heart was beating so fast. Why her palms were clammy. Why she couldn’t calm the jitters in her belly. “He was just some backwoods character. Lives out of the way, I take it. He had a bear cub.”

“That’d be Noah Saari,” Toivo put in.

Cassia clasped her hands together. “Wow, Claire—you saw Noah Saari!”

“Noah?” Claire’s tongue felt thick. “Is the name supposed to mean something to me?”

Toivo rocked on his heels, making the flyaway strands of hair waver about his bald pate. “Noah’s a local fella. Did us proud, fighting that big forest fire out west a coupla years ago. Some of us, leastaways.” The elfin face grew serious. “Came home a changed man. Different in the head, they say.”

“Noah Saari’s sort of a local legend.” Cassia touched her steepled fingers to her chin, sighing lustfully. “He returned to Alouette as a hero, but ever since he’s been living way out in the boonies. He hardly ever comes to town.” She beamed at Claire. “And you met him! That’s so cool!”

Claire’s answering smile was weak. She’d done nothing but run her car off the road and attempt to outrun a bear, but here was Cassia, leaning closer, her expression one of awe.

“Did you get a good look at him?” the redhead asked, nearly breathless. “Did you get to—did you see—” She stopped and took a deep breath before asking, “Did you see his scars?”

CHAPTER THREE

“HIS SCARS?” Claire barely heard her echo. She was thinking about Noah Saari’s face. Did he have scars? She couldn’t say; there’d been too much beard. A little chill gripped her. Scars. The poor guy. Was that why he’d grown so much hair?

“Facial scars,” Cassia said. “That’s the rumor. I don’t know if anyone has actually seen them.”

“Myron has,” Toivo said.

Cassia rolled her eyes. “Oh, Myron! You can’t believe a word he says.”

“Sure you can.” Toivo hitched up his pants. “Myron was visiting the Saaris the day Noah came home after the fire. The boy hadn’t grown a beard yet. Myron seen his face. Seen it clearly.” Toivo nodded emphatically, rocking on his heels, all the motion making his round belly jiggle. “Myron says the scars were red. Infamed. Up the side of Noah’s face, down into his collar. Mebbe they go right to his toes. They say his clothes got burnt right off him in the big blaze.”

“You don’t know that,” Cassia protested. She shook her head at Claire. “He does not know. Myron Mykkanen is the biggest gossip in town. He tells a good story, but he exaggerates like crazy.”

“Scars from head to toe,” Toivo said. “That’s what Myron says.”

“Toivo’s partner in crime,” Cassia stage-whispered.

Claire swallowed. “Well, I didn’t see any scars.” Even to her own ears, she sounded unsure.

“What did you see?” Both Cassia and Toivo looked highly interested.

“Very little.”

“Aw, c’mon.” Cassia rubbed her delicate hands together. “How often do we hear of an honest-to-goodness Noah Saari sighting? He’s been hiding away in that cabin ever since he came back to Alouette. The only person who sees him regularly is Wild Rose, who works at the Buck Stop, where Noah buys groceries. And she’s not very talkative.” Cassia sighed. “Won’t give away a single fun detail, even when I beg and cajole.”

Toivo joined in. “Noah’s parents don’t see him much, neither, not since he fixed up the cabin. Back when, the mayor and Sheriff Bob wanted to give Noah a medal, but he flat-out refused. Always was the quiet type.”

“There was only mention of a medal, Toivo. Don’t you remember the fuss that that Terry Lindstrom kicked up? The mayor wouldn’t go against the Lindstroms,” she advised Claire. “They’re one of the founding families who live on the hill. That’s their house, right next door.”

“I can’t see anything from my window but water and trees,” Claire said, then remembered her glimpse of the neighboring house from the Bay House parking area. And the unfriendly man.

“Trust me,” Cassia muttered darkly, “they’re there. It’s the big white house. The Lindstroms live there with their oldest son, Terry.”

Toivo chuckled. “You’re just holding a grudge because of the way the youngest boy used to tease you—”

“I’m not listening,” Cassia sang, pressing the toggle on the controls of her chair and moving smoothly into the jungle of the foyer. “I’ll talk to you later, Claire,” she called over her shoulder. “I want the inside scoop!”

Claire gave a small wave. There was no inside scoop. She was, however, even more intrigued than before. This Noah fellow was a character, apparently. They didn’t seem to think he was dangerous, though. She remembered her instinctive retreat when he’d loomed over her, seven intimidating feet—or so it had seemed—of muscle and hair and animal magnetism. She could picture white teeth and the way his hard eyes had softened with whimsy, but the rest was a blur. She’d been worried about being ravaged by a bear. Who knew she should have been looking for scars?

Claire slipped on the light jacket she’d brought downstairs. Even though it was a sunny spring day, she didn’t intend to be caught underdressed again. At the front door, she stopped and looked at Toivo, who was watching her with interest. Gossip, she thought.

“I’m going to look for my purse.” It wasn’t that she was scared. The wise thing was to tell someone where she was going. Just in case. “On the road leading into town—I forget—”

“County road 525.”

“Right. That one.” She fixed her collar as she stepped onto the porch. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Toivo came to the door. “You won’t see him. Not ’less he wants ya to.”

Claire hurried away without looking back. No use explaining herself, even though the innkeeper’s words followed her as she drove down the hill. Between Toivo and Cassia, the entire household would soon be thinking she’d gone looking for Noah Saari, mysterious man of the wilderness, when all she wanted was to retrieve her purse. Really. If Noah was a recluse, she wouldn’t dream of barging in on him. He’d been kind to her, but they weren’t friends. His life—and scars—was none of her business. She couldn’t interfere.

Just because she was fascinated…

Just because she was cursed…

Claire made a scoffing sound as she reached the bottom of the hill and slowed to make her turn. The story of Valentina was no more than a colorful fable to tell the guests. The Bel Vista publicity department would eat it up. They might even market it. Valentina soaps, candles, sachets. Valentina postcards. Cliff-side tours. Maybe even a Valentina reenactment every year on the fateful wedding date.

It would be awful. But they’d make money. And so would the town. Emmie and Toivo would be well paid for the marketing rights to their family name, if they had the foresight not to sell them along with the house.

Would they? The question gnawed at Claire, a good sign that she was already too involved in these people’s lives. She was supposed to swoop in, gather information, make a report and then leave the negotiations to the corporation. No need to start worrying about the aftermath.

Her gut cramped. Oh, dear. Some executive she made.

Deliberately, she focused her thoughts on the town. It was much as she’d envisioned last night—quaint and picturesque, the old brick buildings softened by spring flowers and the bursting foliage of mature trees. A number of businesses had opened their doors, but the downtown area wasn’t very busy aside from the occasional pedestrian and a few cars and other vehicles crisscrossing the intersection. Alouette businesspeople would likely welcome the increased tourist traffic of an aggressively marketed B and B inn. It wasn’t only the Whitakers she should think about. If she recommended that Bel Vista buy Bay House, it could turn out to be a boon to the town as a whole.

Uh-huh. So why did that feel like a justification?

She didn’t relax until she reached the desolate county road. The soothing quiet and the fresh green promise of spring spoke to her. In the dark, the forest had seemed foreboding. Now it was bright and alive…but all the same.

She drove slowly, looking for familiar landmarks. A tree was a tree was a tree. Coming from the opposite direction made it even more difficult to tell them apart.

She continued on to the Buck Stop, planning to turn and retrace her route. When she pulled into the sparse gravel parking lot, bumping across ruts worn into the dirt, she saw a woman lounging beside the crooked screen door, smoking a cigarette beneath a Live Bait sign. Would that be Wild Rose Robbin? The one Noah saw regularly? She was about medium height, a lighter weight than Claire but built sturdily. A strong woman. Or maybe that was the attitude she projected, even though half her face was hidden behind an unruly mop of dark hair.

Claire parked. She shut off the engine, then hesitated, wondering how she should approach the stranger, who was looking at her unfamiliar car with some suspicion.

The woman took a deep drag, dropped her cigarette and snubbed it out beneath her heel. Instead of leaving it, she stooped and picked up the crushed butt, exhaling twin plumes of smoke through her nostrils. She ambled toward the car. “Can I help you?”

Claire rolled down her window. “Maybe. Are you, um, Rose?”

The woman cocked her head to one side. “Wild Rose, yup.” She scraped back her tousled jet-black hair, revealing a face that was not as old and ravaged as Claire had expected. As if an employee had to be as run-down as the business—Claire scolded herself.

Wild Rose had a hard face, though. Her expression was sober and reserved, and her narrowed dark eyes had the weariness of one who’d seen it all. And maybe done it all, too.

Claire gulped. “I was wondering…do you know Noah Saari?”

Wild Rose’s shrug was neither a confirmation nor a denial.

“I met him last night,” Claire said, uncomfortable with the other woman’s scrutiny. She’d dressed casually this morning, in pants, a sweater and the trim suede jacket, but she was still bandbox perfect in comparison to Wild Rose’s disheveled hair, loose plaid shirt and scruffy, threadbare jeans. Rose’s boots were like Noah’s, built for rugged use, whereas Claire had on a pair of expensive black leather ankle boots with stacked high heels. You wouldn’t know to look at her that she’d grown up in T-shirts, shorts and flip-flops. In her years away from Florence, she’d forgotten—purposely, she supposed—how to dress for the country.

Wild Rose hadn’t responded.

“He helped me get my car out of the ditch,” Claire prompted.

“Mmm.”

“I, uh, thought maybe you’d seen him this morning. He might have mentioned me? It seems I lost my purse, and I was hoping….” Claire let her voice trail off. She didn’t know what she was hoping. That Noah had found her purse and dropped it off at the Buck Stop, or that he’d been so awed by their meeting that he’d emerged from his lengthy hibernation to seek her out?

“Noah doesn’t come by that often.”

“But he was here last night.” Claire remembered the small brown paper parcel tucked inside his belt.

Wild Rose’s mouth pursed. “He had a craving.”

Thoughtful, Claire drew her teeth across her bottom lip. She really did not need to get involved in that. Her father hadn’t been a drunk or anything, but he’d tippled frequently enough that it had contributed toward his all-around laziness. Sam Levander’s name had been on the sign, but it was his no-nonsense wife who’d run the family’s thriving gas station and repair shop, leaving Claire to manage domestic duties.

“Does he live close by?”

Wild Rose folded her arms, one hand cupped around the cigarette butt. “Why’re you asking?”

“I’m Claire Levander, from Chicago. Here on…business. I’m staying at Bay House. I ask because I lost my purse, as I said, and I thought possibly Noah had found it.”

“He’ll return it if he did.”

“He doesn’t know who I am.”

“Does now.”

“Oh.” Claire blinked. “All right. Thank you.” She didn’t move.

“Anything else?” Wild Rose prompted.

“I’m—no.” She could hardly ask this taciturn woman about Noah’s past. Or his scars. “Thank you,” she repeated. “I’ll be on my way.”

Wild Rose nodded. She walked away, tossing the butt into a rusty trash can beside the door, then turning to look as another car pulled into the parking lot, spitting gravel as it braked hard. Wild Rose’s expression twisted and she fled inside, letting the screen door bang shut behind her.

Claire watched as the fair-complected man she recognized as the Whitakers’ next-door neighbor emerged from the black BMW. Lindstrom was the name. He glanced at her and she smiled, almost reflexively, feeling wary. He looked presentable enough, expensively dressed and good-looking in a conventional, slightly flabby way. Home in Chicago, her friends would have probably voted that this one was more her type than Noah Saari. But there was a sour air about the man that made her uneasy. As if he’d gone soft and rotten at the core.

Lindstrom stopped, leaning casually against his car while he evaluated Claire. She sat up a little straighter. “Hi.”

He nodded.

She was determined not to make another overture.

“You’re a guest at Bay House?” he finally said.

“That’s right.”

“I’m Terry Lindstrom.” Not boasting, but smug.

She wanted to say, “So?” Not a good idea. “Claire Levander.”

“Staying long?”

“About a week.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement behind the screen door. Wild Rose was watching.

Lindstrom slouched, both he and the gleaming auto looking out of place outside the Buck Stop. “If you want to escape the Whitakers to have a good time, give me a call.”

Hmph. Claire started her car. “Thank you, but I’m looking forward to staying in with the Whitakers. I hear they’re big on Scrabble.” She drove away with her head high, hoping that would be the last of Terry Lindstrom. Wild Rose was probably quite capable of dealing with his sullen attitude, although it was hard to imagine why the man would be slumming at the dilapidated store.

Claire cruised slowly along the road. There was no reason she couldn’t find her purse—or Noah—on her own. It couldn’t be that difficult. If she had to, she’d prowl through the underbrush until she found the path into the woods.

Minutes later, that’s what she’d come to. Either the trees had grown leafier since last night or she was hopelessly unobservant, but she wasn’t able to distinguish the right location until she’d parked and walked along the roadside. Eventually she discovered the log she’d run into, spotting the fresh yellow gash in the trunk through a gap of broken branches. From there, she was able to retrace her steps—more like a panicked zigzag if she remembered correctly—until she stumbled onto the overgrown trail.

Still no purse. She waded through the grass, looking for it, then stopped, setting her hands on her hips as she squinted into the woods. What now? If Noah had picked up the purse, he obviously hadn’t brought it to Wild Rose’s store. And she wasn’t sure, but hadn’t he made a comment about not owning a car? Or was that her assumption, because of his remote living quarters and simple lifestyle? She wasn’t accustomed to men who took nighttime strolls through the forest with a bear cub at their heels. It didn’t fit that such an anachronism would own a car.

What would it hurt to take a short walk into the woods, as long as she stuck to the trail, such as it was? Possibly she’d been getting her leg pulled, and Noah’s house was just beyond the trees, fully furnished, with all conveniences and a four-wheel-drive SUV parked in the garage.

Claire started off. She relaxed by degrees, slowing her stride to enjoy the twitter of birds in the sun-flecked trees. It was so pleasant, in fact, she walked farther than she’d intended, not ready to stop.

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