A Promise of Fireflies (28 page)

The hours flew by as Ryleigh settled into her cabin, and taking a last look in the mirror, left to find the dining room. Snow crunched under her boots. Encased entirely in glass, the dining room branched off the lobby and embraced the jagged outline of the Rockies. The delicate aromas of sautéed mushrooms and roasted garlic wafted over the tempting whispers of ripe strawberries and fresh cream. Ryleigh was escorted to her table and served a carefully personalized full-course meal.

Familiar with a good entrée and already spoiled by the Cavanaughs’ exquisite taste in décor and food, future stays at the Days Inn would be nothing short of mundane.

Rose placed a hand on Ryleigh’s shoulder and leaned in. “What do you think of your first meal at Whisper of the Pines, Ms. Collins?” She reached for a chair and sat across from her.

“A rare treat,” Ryleigh said, placing her napkin alongside a square Mikasa china plate. “The cedar-plank salmon was seasoned to perfection and the citrus salad a superb blend of sweet and zesty flavors. And there’s nothing to compare to fresh roasted vegetables in the middle of winter. Fresh asparagus this time of year is unheard of.” She shook her head. “But the caramelized crème brûlée was to die for.”

Rose beamed. “We have an extraordinary chef. Mr. Cavanaugh’s choice, of course. And I see you know something about good food.”

“A little.” Ryleigh shrugged. “I’m impressed, and I’m dying to see what you have in store for the spa.”

“It doesn’t have the Tuscany theme Nat loves so much, but I have a feeling she will be pleased—on your recommendation, of course.”

“I doubt there’ll be a problem.”

“If you’re ready, I’ll give you the full tour.” The women rose and wove their way through the dining room. “Afterward, I’ve got to get home and help my husband bring in firewood. There’s a storm coming. He’s disabled and can’t stack it himself.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Rose shook her head. “We manage.”

“There’s a storm coming?”

“So they say. The clouds are building along the Divide. Isn’t supposed to snow much, but things can change quickly along this fickle river valley. A storm can dump three times as much snow here as in town. It’s odd, but it happens.”

“Is it supposed to last long?”

“Don’t be alarmed. It’s been such a mild winter so far. Probably be nothing more than a cookie-duster. Besides, weathermen are rarely right.” Rose dismissed the statement with a wave of her hands, and then took Ryleigh’s arm. “Look there,” she whispered, “along the river.” Rose pointed out the window. “You’ll want to take in a sleigh ride. If the weather turns bad, Mr. Cavanaugh will have the horses put up for the duration of the storm.”

Smiling guests bundled against the cold climbed into the horse-drawn sleigh. Old-fashioned lampposts bordered the winding path, diffused light radiating from them like a strand of pearls shimmering in the wake of incandescent moonlight. “Reminds me of a Thomas Kinkade painting,” Ryleigh said under her breath, “and fairy tales.” She turned to Rose. “What doesn’t this place have?”

“Not much. Except a spa. And that’s why you’re here. If his resorts lack anything, Mr. Cavanaugh will see to acquiring it. I’ve never seen anything like it in this business, and I’ve managed a few resorts over the years.” Rose leaned in closer to Ryleigh. “He’s eligible, you know,” she mused. “A bit on the solemn side but oh, goodness,” she said, her hands clutching at her heart, “the man is as divine as the crème brûlée—a rare, sweet treat.” Her face turned pink. “He’s much too young for me and he is my boss—but you, my dear…”

“And you’re married.”

“That too,” she said with a wink.

A prickle of warmth rose in Ryleigh’s cheeks. “I’m here for the solitude and to get some work done. Nothing more.”

Rose patted her arm. “Whatever you do during your stay will be splendid, I assure you.”

Rose’s enthusiasm bubbled at each point of the proposed spa facility. She fussed over the business proposals and latest asset and expenditure spreadsheets. Ryleigh jotted notes, leaving the business analysis to the Burstyns, but assured the astute woman there would be no question she’d give her blessing. She had already fallen in love with the quaint winter wonderland.

With a firm grip on the railing, Ryleigh waved to Rose and descended the lobby steps. A soft nicker echoed through the night stillness. Delighted they were still making rounds, she headed for the sleigh hoping to catch a ride.

“Excuse me,” she said, rubbing gloved hands together. “Am I too late?” Her breath puffed ahead of her in smoky clouds. The driver turned. A second man removed packed snow from the horse’s hoof.

“No, ma’am.” The driver tipped a black felt cowboy hat. “Which cabin?”

“Three, please.”

The other man stood and stroked the big, black horse’s nose. Ryleigh smiled at the familiar face. “I guess you know which cabin I’m in now.”

“That I do,” he said, studying her. “Three is special.”

“Why is that?”

“When you wake in the morning, look for the large boulder across the river from your deck. You’re likely to see Whistler, our resident bobcat. Cabin Three is named The Whistler, in her honor.” He adjusted the horse’s harness and then patted him on his withers. The horse chuffed and a fog of breath swirled around the tall man. He chuckled and patted the horse again.

“Why do you call her Whistler?”

“Whistle a tune to her,” he said and spread a wool blanket across one of the sleigh’s seats. “The sound seems to fascinate her, but she’s skittish, so keep it soft. Any loud noise and she’ll bolt.” He offered his hand. “Watch your step.” A large leather-gloved hand, firm and steady, grasped hers and assisted her into the seat. “I’d like to ride along, if you don’t mind.”

Not really a question, the statement puzzled her. Without offering an answer, she zipped the collar of her coat against the cold night air and cinched her scarf.

“I need to settle the horses for the night, and the barn is across the footbridge just beyond your cabin.”

“Oh.” The tension in her legs eased with the perfectly rational explanation.

He took a seat across from her, broad shoulders and dark hair dusted with snow. He nodded to the driver, who clicked his tongue and flipped the reins. Silver bells around the horse’s necks jingled as they moved forward, their jet-black outline mere silhouettes in the soft light.

“The horses are beautiful. And so big. What kind are they? There’s a footbridge?”

The man settled his arm over the back of the seat. “The horses are Percherons, to answer your first question. Draft horses. Windsor’s on the right,” he said, nodding in the horse’s direction, “Apollo the left. Originally bred in France to carry knights into battle. They had to be quite substantial to transport the weight of a fully armored knight. In today’s world, Percherons are bred by the Amish for plowing fields and pulling sleighs and carriages. There’s not much call for knights in shining armor these days.”

“You’re not a woman.” An awkward smile crept across her face, and she bit her lip in response to the silly remark she desperately wanted to take back.

“If you’re inclined to require the services of a knight,” he chuckled, “I’m afraid you’re out of luck, shining armor or not. And yes, a footbridge crosses the river to answer your second question. Between cabins three and four.”

The horses slowed, and then came to a stop outside cabin number three. Logan stepped from the sleigh and offered his hand, the strength of his grasp assurance she wouldn’t fall. He reaffirmed her confidence by taking her waist, so close his musky scent overpowered the pines. Snowflakes as big as nickels had begun to fall.

“Good night, Miss…I’m sorry, but you haven’t told me your name.”

“You’re right.” She grasped her collar tightly. “I haven’t.” Snow rested quietly on her shoulders and tickled her lashes. “Nor have you offered yours.” Ryleigh tilted her head shyly. “Good night, then, and thank you for the ride.”

Ryleigh waved, privately noting the kindness behind the deep brown eyes of the man who seemed to be wherever she was. Gazing back at the winter wonderland, she couldn’t help but wonder at the remote possibility of the existence of fairy tales.

And knights in shining armor.

LOGAN WAITED UNTIL
she approached the door to cabin number three, the tingling warmth of her hand still residing in the palm of his. Her laugh echoed in his mind, the sound more brilliant than her smile. Her eyes glistened in the light from the lampposts and he need only close his eyes for full recollection.

“Let’s put the horses up, Shep, before the skies unload.”

“You got it, Mr. C.” The driver dipped the brim of his Stetson and clicked his tongue. The sleigh lurched forward. The harness bells jingled, a crisp echo in the still night air.

Images of an old movie—Lara in the sleigh waving goodbye to Yuri—flashed across his mind as the woman slipped inside, a silhouette in the open cabin door. Though the compulsion to fix his eyes once more on the woman with the stormy green eyes tugged at his better judgment, the insurgent feeling he hoped to see her again tapped at the armor he’d wrapped around an empty spirit. Yet every rational part of him waged its own personal war against it.

Logan leaned into the cold leather seat. His hands trembled. He rubbed his temples, driving the images from his mind only to have them take shape and rise the way smoke swells into plumes from under the door.

RYLEIGH CLOSED THE
door and leaned against the hard surface. A chill rushed over her; one that had nothing to do with the freezing temperature, but had everything to do with a snippet of memory: a shadow of beard, deep-set dimples, and if she watched closely (which she had) a solemn smile that softened his dark eyes.

Brushing snow from her shoulders, she hung her coat, pulled off her boots, and wiggled her emancipated toes. Instant warmth flooded the room as she flipped the switch to the gas fireplace and skied across the room, thick fleece socks gliding easily over waxed planks of wood flooring. Set high above the floor, the queen bed yielded when she fell backward into the puffy down comforter. She laughed, a giddy sort of thing, and sat up. Grabbing her phone, she drew her legs to her chest and dialed Nat’s number.

The connection was garbled and the call went straight to voicemail.

“Natalie Jo, this place is enchanting,” she said, twirling her hair around an index finger. “You need to sign on with these guys, without a doubt. The amenities are impeccable and the scenery spectacular. People will love it, summer or winter. I’ll send pictures if the connection clears up. By the way, between the Beemer and this place, I’m officially in love. Oh, hey—how’s Kingsley? I miss that brat. Talk to you soon. Wait—one more thing. It’s snowing,” she sang. Her toes curled and her shoulders quirked up to meet her ears.

Ryleigh tossed her phone on the comforter and pulled Nat’s laptop into her lap. “Crap. This’ll be interesting,” she said, cringing. Mastering technology was as simple to her as algebra—letters and numbers didn’t belong together and neither did cookies and spam. But caffeine went with everything.

Soon, the bold aroma of gourmet coffee filled the cabin. She placed a full, piping hot mug on the nightstand, flopped on the bed, and lifted the computer into her lap. She clicked the icon. “Yes!” The document blossomed in front of her eyes and she made the final edits to both columns for
The Sentinel
, Bernadette’s trade for time off. Smug with the results of the first document, she clicked the second folder and the title page of her manuscript appeared.

Armed with a mug of caffeine, she settled in to tweak one of her characters, an incessant fictional child—aka, hormonal male—begging for her attention. She recalled his features, confident stride, and shadowed face. Her hero emulated the spirited jawline and assured stature of the stranger on the sleigh, but a mountain of handwritten pages needed to be typed into the computer. She sighed at the prospect of a long night ahead.

Snow bathed the night in silence outside while the soft tapping of fingers on a keyboard resounded inside cabin number three. Ryleigh yawned. Transferring the last of the handwritten pages, she typed the word
Epilogue
, clicked Save, and closed the laptop.

Remnants of subdued light from the stone fireplace cast playful, soothing shadows across the log-sided cabin walls. Her tired limbs unfolded and she yawned so wide her eyes watered, the moisture cooling the burn. She shimmied out of her jeans and snuggled under fleece sheets and thick blankets. Firelight whirled behind her eyelids, and her fingers closed around the dog tag as sleep set the period at the end of a long day.

Outside, snow continued to fall.

RYLEIGH OPENED ONE
eye and stretched languidly. Light poured through the glass doors, gray-white and blinding. In her haste to crawl into bed last night (or had it been morning?) she’d forgotten to close the blinds. Movement caught her eye beyond the back deck. She rose and tiptoed to the glass doors.
Could it be?

Night had given way to a pristine blanket of snow, the wilderness quiescent. Directly across Fall River perched atop a large boulder sat the bobcat, legs buried in snow. Not much larger than Kingsley, its gray fur and black spots contrasted against the white backdrop. Careful not to disturb her, Ryleigh cracked the sliding glass door. A breath of air, cold and keenly virginal, showered her nose to ankle in gooseflesh. The cat flinched, every muscle on high alert. Slightly off-key and through chattering teeth, she whistled “Somewhere over the Rainbow,” a tune she’d sang to Evan as a baby, before he could discern the fact she couldn’t sing. The cat’s ears twitched at the unseen notes floating over the river. The snap of a tree limb startled her and in two leaps, she’d disappeared.
What wasn’t magical about this place?