Welcome to Paradise (6 page)

He watched her in the rearview mirror as she struggled with the boxes and bags until he couldn't stand it any more. Then he got out of the truck, slammed his door shut and, in tension-filled silence, grabbed box after box out of the rear and dropped them unceremoniously onto the ground next to the trail that led to Paradise Springs. When he finished, there was a pile of stuff so high it would take her about three months to haul to her property.

“Thank you,” she said, wiping the perspiration off her forehead. She looked tired, but undaunted. He should have known the first moment he saw her yesterday, that she was the type who didn't give up. He should have known she was married, too. A woman who could sleep on the ground, ride a horse for the first time and still look like a million dollars would be married. As usual, he was a day late and a dollar short. No, a few years late and about fifty-thousand dollars short was more like it.

Chloe stood there, breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling beneath her cotton shirt. “I don't understand you,” she said at last.

She didn't understand him? Frustration built and threatened to swamp him. “Would this help?” he asked, grabbing her by one arm and hauling her up against him. His fingers tightened around her wrist in a bruising grip. Ignoring her effort to pull away, he jerked her into his arms. He didn't imagine the thudding of her heart against his. It was real. He didn't mistake the look in her eyes for curiosity. He recognized desire, hot, pure and simple. It matched his own.

His hands moved to her hips, cupping her buttocks, pulling her against his aching erection. She wrapped her arms around him. He kissed her, and with matching fervor she kissed him back. Over and over, as if she wanted him as much as he wanted her. As if she was just as aroused and frustrated as he was.

Her sighs, her soft moans made his blood boil. Her tongue tangled with his. He could take her down on the ground with him right now, make love under the trees, everything else forgotten—her refusal to sell him the land, and the fact that she wasn't free. This was madness. She was married. But she sure as hell didn't act as if she was.

Abruptly he dropped his arms and backed away. “You don't understand me?” he demanded.

“That's right,” she said as she stumbled backwards, rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand as if to erase his kisses. “And that didn't help at all.”

Adrenaline pumped through her body as Chloe carried the first box down the trail and through the woods to the old resort. It might have weighed twenty pounds, it might have weighed fifty. She was oblivious. She was so mad at Zebulon Bowie she could spit. How had she let this happen?

And all she knew was that she was not going to accept one more favor from the randy, dominating, insulting cowboy she had the misfortune to live next door to. Not if she starved and they found her bones at the end of the summer. Not if she sprained her ankle and lay helpless on the bare ground. She wouldn't call him for help. And if he stumbled on her by accident she'd close her eyes and play dead before she'd let him help her to her feet.

Not that she was going to starve or sprain her ankle, she told herself as she planted one foot after the other on the rough ground. She could take care of herself. She had supplies. She was in good health. She had confidence. Yes, she did. She didn't need him to provide her with food, or rides. She didn't need help carrying her supplies in from the road. She was glad he hadn't offered, because then she would have had to refuse.

She just wished she'd taken a moment to decide which box to carry in first. But she couldn't. Not and retain her dignity. Because he was watching her. Waiting for her to stumble. To fail. Then he'd close in on her like a mountain lion after a deer and snatch away her property.

If she had taken a moment, she would have chosen the box with the hammock or the groceries. Because by the time she got back to the bathhouse next to the stream, it was dusk and her arms ached. It was no problem to hike back to where her boxes sat, no problem at all. On the other hand, it would feel so good to stretch out in that tub and let the steaming waters work their magic on her aching muscles, then heat something over her new propane camp stove and rock herself to sleep in her new hammock.

She dumped the box on the ground and rubbed the muscles in her arms. Then she tore at the cardboard with her fingernails. It was her hammock and the stove. Thank heavens. Even if she didn't get back to pick up the rest of the stuff tonight, she'd at least have a hot meal and a good night's sleep. And after a hot meal and a good night's sleep, she could do anything. Without anyone's help, she thought smugly.

From the supply of freeze-dried food in her suitcase, she chose turkey tetrazzini, added spring water, lit the stove and sat cross-legged on the ground in front of it. When it was hot she ate every reconstituted noodle and every shred of turkey, then washed it down with cold mountain spring water. Her very own water, from her very own spring. She sighed with contentment, satisfied with her self-sufficiency.

She wished Zeb Bowie could see her now. He'd see how well she fit into the Rocky Mountain lifestyle. So she'd ordered the wrong drink at the bar and maybe she had said the wrong thing to the bartender. That didn't mean she didn't belong there. She belonged there as much as anyone. Maybe more than anyone. Because her great-grandfather was a pioneer, and she'd inherited his spirit.

Filled with turkey tetrazzini and a new confidence, she unwrapped her new hammock and tied it between two trees. It was made of strong canvas and she was very tired. After pulling on an extra sweatshirt she rolled into the hammock. Her stomach, full of spring water and freeze-dried turkey, lurched as she swung between the trees. If she hadn't known she was landlocked, she would have sworn she was seasick. She threw one leg over the edge of the hammock and dug her toe into the ground to stop its movement. Then, ever so carefully, she lifted her leg and tucked it back. The breeze picked up and she was swinging back and forth again. She moaned and buried her face in the stiff canvas and closed her eyes.

The wind blew out of the west and tossed her from side to side. Tiny rain drops began to fall gently on the back of her head and her shoulders. Soon her whole body was wet. She rolled out of the hammock.

“All right, I give up,” she muttered and shuffled back to the bathhouse for the second straight night. Only this time she didn't gaze up at the stars through the slats above her head, she stared at the rain that splatted intermittently against her forehead like a Chinese torture. Finally, somehow, she drifted off into a damp, uncomfortable sleep.

Zeb was uncomfortable, too. Not that he was damp. He was warm and dry on the second floor of the old house as he listened to the rain on the shake roof. But he couldn't help thinking of those cardboard boxes stacked on the side of the road—and the woman who'd left them there. The woman who'd stomped away without a backward glance, with a huge box in her arms, a box she could barely see over. He wondered how she made it back without stumbling in those flimsy sandals. Even if she had, the rest of the boxes and bags must still be there. There was no way she could have carried them all the way back to the springs. So right now the cardboard was probably disintegrating into pulp, leaving her new survival equipment exposed to the elements.

Not to mention her groceries, which were turning to mush. The twenty-five-pound bag of flour would be paste by now. The sugar would be dissolving into syrup and running off like snow melt. He should be happy about that. Without food she couldn't survive. She'd have to leave. The very thought should have made him smile. But it didn't.

He stood at the window in his boxer shorts and stared out at the rain. He wanted her to leave. There was no doubt in his mind that she was destined to fail. Eventually. Because he knew something about failure. And he knew that it was okay to fail if you'd done your damnedest to succeed. She hadn't had a chance to do that yet.

There was nothing he wanted more than to see her walking back down the trail from where she came, in her silk shirt and suede boots. But not without a go at it. Not without trying. Why not give her a fighting chance? Would it be that hard to haul her stuff down to the springs and store them in a cabin?

The answer was yes, but he did it anyway. He led two of his pack mules down to the road in the rain, loaded all of her goods onto their backs and into their saddlebags and led the way by horseback down the trail, with the rain beating a tattoo on the hood of his parka. And the voice in his head said,
“You're a fool, Bowie. A stupid idiot. You think she'll thank you for this and then leave? Is that the deal? Think again.”

It was coming down hard now. The trail was pure mud and the mules brayed their protest. He felt like braying himself. But he kept going. When they finally reached the springs, he tossed her boxes on the dirt floor of a deserted cabin. He had no idea what condition her groceries were in. That was for her to find out. He'd done enough for her already. Too much.

He looked around at the old pool, slowly filling with rain water. Noticed the hammock swinging in the wind. Stood there wondering where she was. In one of the other cabins? In the bathhouse? Back in San Francisco? No, that would be too good to be true. Wherever she was, he didn't plan to see her again. He would send her a message. How he would do that, he didn't know. There was no mail delivery at the springs. And carrier pigeon was out.

Sam. He'd wait a day or two and he'd have Sam make her their final offer. By then, she'd be ready to accept. By then, Sam would see what a misfit she was. What a gorgeous, gutsy, misfit she was. Which was why he was not going to see her again. There was something about her that made it hard for him to stick to his principles. Something about the way she looked at him, with a mixture of stubborn pride and vulnerability. Which was why this was the last, the positively last thing he was going to do with her or for her.

What if Sam didn't see what a misfit she was? He had this tendency to feel sorry for poor, defenseless creatures. Poor, defenseless Chloe Hudson? Hah! He'd have to think of something else. He didn't even want Sam to meet her.

He thought so long and so far into the night that he overslept the next morning. Small wonder, since he'd been out in the rain half the night and spent the other half worrying. At least he'd had no dreams about Chloe Hudson to interfere with his rest. She was out of his dreams. Now if only he could get her out of his mind and out of his life. He might still have been sleeping if George, his foreman, hadn't pounded on his bedroom door.

Zeb rocked back on his bare heels. “No further questions. Tell her I'm not here,” he whispered urgently. “Tell her I left the country.”

“But...I already asked her in for a cup of coffee and a biscuit. She looked so puny, like she could use a bite. She's sittin' at the kitchen table right now,” George added with a nervous glance over his shoulder.

Zeb closed his eyes for a moment hoping he was dreaming this part. But when he opened them, George was still standing there, staring at him.

“Okay, okay, I'm coming,” he assured him.

Zeb dragged his feet as he came down the stairs and approached the kitchen. It wasn't too late to sneak out the front door. On the other hand, maybe she'd come to say goodbye. He didn't want to miss that. Besides, he was hungry. And George's biscuits were worth waking up for.

Evidently she thought so too, because she was sitting at the table with a thick mug of steaming coffee in front of her, watching George take a pan out of the oven. The kitchen was warm and steamy, fragrant with the smell of his hot flaky biscuits.

But the minute Chloe looked up at him, and her gaze collided with his, he forgot about food and remembered the way she'd kissed him at the edge of the road. The way she sighed and moaned with reckless abandon, letting him think...letting him imagine what might come next. He squeezed his eyes shut and forcibly blocked the image. But he couldn't forget the way she'd wrapped her arms around him and opened her lips to welcome him in as if there was no tomorrow.

But there was tomorrow. Tomorrow was now. He had to get rid of her. Now.

“Here you are, little lady,” George said, sliding a half dozen biscuits onto a plate in front of her.

Zeb shot daggers at his old friend and foreman but George seemed oblivious. “Wait a minute,” Zeb said. “She can't eat all those. What about me?”

“Plenty more where those came from,” George said with a grin that showed his gold front tooth. Then with a deliberate wink in the direction of his employer, he left the room.

The room was silent, except for the coffee percolating on the stove. Zeb reached for a cup. What in the hell was she doing there? It was bad enough she'd taken over his hot tub, now she'd invaded his kitchen as well. He snuck a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. And noted with satisfaction that she looked tired. Why he should feel a stab of sympathy in the vicinity of his gut, was beyond comprehension. Maybe it was just hunger. Yeah, that's what it was.

Chloe studied him from under long lashes. She only wished she could look that good first thing in the morning. Maybe after she had her inflatable mattress set up she would. For now she felt like her back was in a vise. Her eyelids were heavy and red around the rims.