A Promise of Fireflies (34 page)

Sleep escaped him as he contemplated how close he had come to violating the oath he had made to his wife, who slept peacefully in a grave halfway across the continent.

RYLEIGH WOKE SATURDAY
morning with no clue what time it was and a twinge in her stomach she couldn’t identify, but the soft cotton shirt against her skin intensified the feeling. She tucked her nose into the collar and breathed the subtle scent. His scent. His autograph written in her senses.

The room was quiet except for the exaggerated thump of her heart. Hearing nothing from beyond the door, she rose, grateful the shirt fell just above her knees. She yawned, rolled the sleeves of Logan’s shirt to her elbows and opened the bedroom door to a neat pile of her belongings. Her bare feet padded lightly across the wood floors as she crossed the space to the sitting room. Light spilled into the room through a bank of glass doors.

“Good morning, Cabin Number Three.”

Ryleigh turned sharply. “You scared me.”

Mug in hand, Logan leaned against the granite counter. “It’s part of my repertoire of remarkable talents.”

“Do you always sneak up on people like that?”

“Only beautiful women who sleep in my shirt,” he replied, nursing his coffee. “And I recall you entered the room after I did.” He raised his mug in mock salute.

“Smart-ass,” she mumbled, processing his words through a mental sieve. She wrinkled her nose.
Women? As in plural?
Though he didn’t fit the stereotypical playboy type, she didn’t truly want to know the answer. Surprises, especially ones that hovered on the edge of unwelcomed information, stunk.

Logan chuckled, the mug muffling the deep timbre of his voice. “Care for some coffee? I hope lattes are acceptable.”

“What?” The question slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it. Was her affinity for lattes first place on some secret Google search?

“It’s the only thing Rose taught me how to make in the Jura. And Max brought his specialty—yesterday’s freshly baked croissants.”

Ryleigh raised an eyebrow and her grin grew wide.

“And there’s fruit.”

“Lattes are my weakness.” She took the steaming mug from him, her fingers grazing his. A tingle raced down her legs. And he was staring. “What? Haven’t you ever seen a girl with no makeup and frumpy hair?”

“Not one that looks this good in my shirt.” Logan’s eyes dropped to the hollow of her neck.

His heated gaze was unnerving, yet her body responded with sudden warmth, his words an encompassing blanket folding around her. Fully aware she wore nothing but her panties under his shirt, she bunched the gaping collar together. “I need a shower,” she said, clearing her throat. She turned but felt his eyes follow her across the room.

“Dress warm.”

“Why?” she asked, walking backward.

“You’re decidedly nosy.”

“I don’t care for surprises.”

“You’re still nosy.”

“And you’re still a smart-ass.”

“Probably so, but you had best turn around.”

“Why?” With the question barely out of her mouth, she backed into the wall and grabbed her mug with both hands in a successful, albeit awkward, attempt to keep from spilling her coffee.

“Because your sense of direction’s a little off, Cabin Number Three.”

“Smart-ass,” she mumbled, whirled, and closed the bedroom door behind her.

LOGAN COULDN’T HELP
but laugh. Hundreds of beautiful women graced his travels withWentworth-Cavanaugh. Countless heartbroken women sat opposite him over the years. But never had he met a woman who bore the scars of fresh sorrow, yet radiated such inner strength. She was enchanting and a little crazy. And more than beautiful. She was also scared to death of herself, and didn’t see any of it. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms, to protect her from the pain and shadows that haunted her; to be there for her in all ways, always.

He wrapped his fingers around his mug and downed the last of his coffee. His eyes remained on the door long after she’d disappeared behind it, the image of her bare legs stretched long and lean beneath a shirt that belonged to him permanently ingrained in his mind.

She was delightful.

And she terrified him.

A long shower helped erase the nervous tension. Ryleigh dressed in a hurry but took extra time to apply her makeup, easy on the eyeliner and mascara and then added a touch of lip gloss. She reached for the blush but put it back. The chilly mountain air had kissed her cheeks with a natural glow and she decided against adding any more color. She took a deep breath and tried hard to remember the last time it mattered how she looked.

Logan was gone when she entered the main sitting room. The door to his bedroom stood ajar, but not wide enough to peek inside. Even on tiptoes and stretching her neck it was impossible to see more than a few feet in either direction, or whether he made his bed or tossed his clothes on the floor—as if it mattered—and abandoned the nosy exploit. She returned to the kitchen, poured herself another latte, and stepped to the sliding doors.

Lazy snowflakes as fine as powder fell in intermittent waves—the last cough of a storm that covered the landscape with a deep, downy blanket—a winter wonderland, untouched and unspoiled, reminding her of Narnia after the White Witch had cast her spell.

She stepped outside. Funnels of snow swirled across the wooden planks, but the covered deck remained free of snow. Several feet below, Fall River rumbled past. The frigid water undercut the ice, forming undetectable shelves of ice. A panorama lay before her, a colorless prism of sight, sound, and smell. Crisp air stung her lungs, but she inhaled a long breath, examining the core of crumpled emotions rippling through her. As if the storm had cleansed her thoughts like the snow had cleansed the world around her, her feelings had surfaced and run over, too late to turn off. Cold winter air calmed the flame that both warmed her insides and pebbled her skin with gooseflesh. Nothing remotely similar had stirred within her in a very long time.

Grasping the mug of hot liquid in both hands, Ryleigh stood alone on the deck, vulnerable and exposed.

LOGAN RETURNED FROM
a quick storm damage assessment to find Ryleigh alone on the deck. Afraid he’d startle her again, he stepped quietly to the glass door content to merely watch. Warm puffs of breath fanned out in front of her in wispy clouds.

The majestic tips of the Rockies punched through the clouds. Pools of orange and pink sunlight seeped through a gap in the clouds outlining her silhouette, as if a halo had formed around her. A perfect landscape. A perfect woman. Both painted by the hand of God. And through no conscious effort of his own, he felt a gentle nudge lift his spirit: a resurrected conviction absent for three years.

Every inch of his physical being rooted him to the spot with an insatiable desire to remain here in the quiet of a perfect moment, yet every mental fragment fought the transgression.

THE DOOR SLID
open with barely a sound. Ryleigh set her mug on the deck rail, but didn’t turn around. Logan stepped to the deck and stood behind her, the magnitude of his presence unwavering, his body a shield. “Good morning, Cabin Number Three.”

“Hello, Logan Wentworth Cavanaugh.”

He stepped closer. “Is this spot taken?”

“It is now.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not. I was just taking in the view.”

“In stocking feet?”

She looked down, straightened her toes, and looked beyond the deck. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is, indeed.”

“Nothing compares to the solitude after a heavy snow.”

“Earth’s quiet time. Can you hear it?”

She nodded.

“What do you hear?”

“Sometimes words get in the way. Of the stillness, I mean. The beauty. Feelings.”

“Please. Tell me what you hear.”

“I hear the river’s lullaby. Trees whispering. The psalm the wind sings.” She breathed a cold, deep breath and smiled. “The glitter of sunlight on the snow.”

“You hear sunlight?”

“It’s like…” She paused, tilted her head, and then started again. “It’s like the tinkle of bells. Thousands of bells. A chorus of high-pitched chimes sprinkled across the snow, each tiny sparkle a heavenly note.”

Logan reached his arms around her and more by instinct than conscious thought, she leaned against him and closed her hands over his, afraid to move, afraid the moment—the quiet stillness that embraced the world and held her captive—would collapse and shatter. “What do you hear?”

“You have a gift. One I cannot match in words.”

“Fair is fair.”

His heart beat against her back, the steady rhythm a parallel to the quiet pulse of the earth. “I hear only you.” His chest rose and fell, the motion gentle, yet as palpable as his body beside her. And then he took her arm and turned her to face him.

“I hear you breathe and my own breath ceases.” He took her hand and pressed it to his chest, near his heart. “I hear the joy in your smile and I never want that smile to fade.” Then he brushed her cheek with the back of his other hand. “And when I hear your voice, I wish only to memorize the lyrics.” And then his thumb traced her lips.

With a sharp breath, she drew in the moment to seal it inside her, to keep the echo of his words safe from leaking out and fading away. Simple. Complex. Deep. She closed her eyes, the silence impenetrable as two people stood together, witnessing the end of a snowstorm in a sequestered world, their fragmented worlds infinitely and prodigiously colliding into one.

Though huddled together, Ryleigh’s teeth chattered. “The storm’s breaking.”

“It’s cold and night falls early this time of year. Time to get moving.”

She took a step back. “There’s over two feet of snow on the ground. Where are we going? And how?”

“The snowmobiles can go most anywhere. Let’s have some fun.”

“Where to?”

Amusement curled one corner of his mouth and reached the humor in his dark eyes. “Dress warm.”

“I’m not particularly fond of surprises.”

“Wear the snow bibs.”

Though packed with snow, the roads were nothing a snowmobile couldn’t handle and the Arctic Cat skimmed the vague layout of the road with little effort. Logan followed it into Estes Park.

Leaning forward as close as the helmet would allow, she wrapped her arms around his waist—a little tighter than before—and spoke over the drone of the engine. “Logan, is it legal to drive on the highway with these things?”

His muscles tensed as he laughed. “Haven’t got a clue.”

“What do you mean you haven’t got a clue?”

“Never asked. The machines were delivered a few days before the storm.”

“Sweet,” she mumbled.

“You worried?”

“Just slightly.”

“I can pull over and you can walk.”

“Not on your life, smart-ass.”

His laughter, rich and deep, carried over the drum of the engine, the pleasure of it rippling over her arms.

Ryleigh spent the remainder of the ride with her helmet tucked into his back. It would definitely be a surprise where they were going, because she had no intention of being first to see the flashing red and blue strobes of a police car.