Thanksgiving Groom (4 page)

The rushing water of the stream could be heard before the stream came into view. But when she saw it, she had to stop, had to stare. Clear water rushed, pounding over rocks and boulders. Downstream, just a short distance, the swift moving water slowed and pooled.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” Tucker held her elbow and guided her over the rough terrain. “You're stubborn.”

“So I've been told. And people always manage to make it seem like a bad thing. But it could be good, if you think about it.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Sure. Of course.”

“Wilma sent lunch with me.”

“Did she really?” He led her to a place at the edge of the stream where animals had stopped to drink. Hoof and paw prints were still visible in the soft earth. Something had dug near the edge of the water.

Penelope studied the paw prints. “What made these?”

He shrugged. “Everything. Elk, bear, fox. Up here, so far from any kind of settlement or town, there is just about anything you could imagine.”

“Do you think we'll catch fish for dinner?”

He handed her the pole. “We can try.”

“What do I do?”

He laughed. “Cast your line into the water.”

“You say ‘cast' like I should know what that is.”

He moved behind her, his arms wrapping around her. He took the fishing pole in his hands and guided hers. “Cast it easy. Don't throw it out there. Just a nice, easy swing, and then you have to remember to set the hook if you feel a fish bite it.”

“Okay, I can do that.” She breathed in deep, trying to ignore the way he leaned in close, the way his chin brushed her cheek as he held her, showing her the way to cast out.

She tried, but couldn't ignore the fact that his arms were strong and he smelled like soap and the outdoors. His hands were rough but gentle.

“Of course you can do it.” He whispered close to her ear as he helped her cast. “But careful or you'll tangle your line. Don't cast too far or you'll end up with your hook in a tree.”

“I can do this,” she repeated and swung the rod, watching as the line and the bait flew through the air, and then landed with a soft
plunk
in the calmer pool of water.

“Good job.” He chuckled a little. “You know what you're doing, right?”

“No, not at all.”

“Then hang in there. You're doing great.” He stood back a short distance, arms crossed, and watched her. She glanced back, making quick eye contact before settling her attention on the fishing line.

“Don't stand there like that.” She didn't look at him again.

“Why?”

“You look stern and disapproving. Build a fire. Do something.”

He laughed, but she caught movement from the corner of her eye and knew that he was doing what she'd asked. And she relaxed, taking in a deep breath. Another glance over her shoulder and she saw that he was gathering wood. Penelope turned back to the water and to fishing. And she smiled, because it was easy to smile out here. Even lost, it was easy to smile.

And then the sudden jerk on the rod. She pulled up on the pole. She could see the gray of the fish. She could feel it tugging, trying to get away. She cranked on the handle of the reel, trying to draw in the fishing line and thus, the fish.

“Tucker!” She glanced over her shoulder. He wasn't there.

She cranked the reel again. The fish pulled, trying to
swim away from the hook that had caught it. She took a step backward.

“Tucker. I can't do this.”

She glanced over her other shoulder and didn't see him in that direction. She couldn't reel in the fish. She couldn't find Tucker. She yelled his name again and heard crashing in the woods behind her. When she turned, he was there. He took the fishing pole from her hands and pulled it back and then reeled in, pulled it back again and reeled.

“Where were you?” She watched as the fish she had caught came closer to the bank. Fear was replaced by awe. “I caught a fish.”

He shook his head. “Yeah,
you
caught a fish.”

“What?”

“I think I helped.”

She could give him that. “Okay, you helped.
We
caught a fish.”

She was responsible for providing food for them to eat. She wanted to dwell on that, but then she remembered that he'd disappeared.

“Where did you go?”

“To look for wood for the fire, remember?”

But there was something in his eyes, something in the way he said it that made her doubt. Firewood didn't crease a man's brow in worry.

And firewood shouldn't cause her own stomach to curl just a little, wondering what he was keeping from her.

But she had caught a fish. She had provided for herself.

Now what?

She shivered a little, not certain if she wanted the answer to that question. What caused the shimmer of fear or danger to crawl up her spine? Tucker? Or whatever it was he wasn't telling her?

T
ucker had never seen anything like it. Standing there in her fuzzy boots and a Shearling coat, Penelope caught three fish. As she pulled in the last one she turned and smiled at him. There was more than a little pride in that smile. And he wasn't about to deflate her.

“That should be enough for tonight, right?” She turned the pole over to him to remove the fish. That, she said, was something she just couldn't do. She had shuddered with her announcement.

“It'll be plenty.” He unhooked the fish and attached it to the stringer with the others, then gave her back the pole. “Are you done, then?”

“I'm done. It's getting cold.” She looked up at the sky and he did the same.

“Looks like it might snow.”

She bit down on her bottom lip and nodded a little. She was a sight, with the pole in one hand and a crutch under her other arm. The wind had turned her cheeks a rosy pink and her nose was red.

“How will we get back to Treasure Creek?” She flicked her gaze away, as if she was looking for a trail
out. “I mean, as fun as this is, I really hadn't planned on staying until next spring.”

“You maybe should have thought about that before you set out on your own.” They headed up the trail, in the direction of the cabin. “Honestly, what were you doing out here, roaming the country by yourself?”

“Are we sharing our secrets?”

“No, I just asked you a question.” No wonder her father wanted to marry her off.

She shrugged. “I wanted to find the treasure for Amy, and for Treasure Creek.”

He didn't want to laugh at her, but he did. He avoided looking at her, because he knew she'd look hurt by his laughter. He kept the stringer of fish held up and trudged forward.

“You were going to find the treasure? You mean a treasure that has been hidden for generations? A treasure they're not even sure exists?
That
treasure?”

“Stop laughing at me.” She stomped ahead of him with one crutch under her arm, a ridiculous figure in clothes that were suited for the city, not the wilderness. He let her get a little ahead of him because he knew that it would make her feel good, to think she was stomping off, leaving him behind.

And then he took a few steps and caught up with her.

“I'm not laughing at you. But honestly, how did you think you could find it? Do you have the map?”

She pointed to her head. “Up here.”

“Oh, of course.”

She glared and kept going. “Don't talk to me.”

“Okay, tell me how you were going to do it.”

She slowed and then stopped, but she didn't turn to look at him. Snow was falling, light flakes floating to the ground on a gray and chilly afternoon. It landed on the crocheted stocking cap that was pulled snug down over her head, and frosted her shoulders.

“I'm so sick of people believing they know me.” She turned and a tear streaked its way down her pink cheeks. “You have an image of who you think I am. But do you know that I have photographic memory? If you'd like, I'll recite the articles I've read about you, and about your disappearance.”

“No, thank you.” That was a little uncomfortable.

She looked a little smug and he gave her props for not backing down. “I peeked at the map the other day when Amy was showing it to someone. I thought that if I could find the treasure and give it to her, the town would survive. The people of Treasure Creek need that treasure, and I wanted to do that for them.”

“You seriously have a photographic memory?”

“I seriously do. I also have a degree in economics.”

He opened his mouth—but what did he say to this revelation?

“Shocked speechless?” She smiled and trudged on, that one crutch under her arm, hobbling and hopping every few steps.

“Yes, I suppose I am. And I owe you an apology.”

“Because you had me pegged under the stereotypical heading of ‘brainless heiress'? Now that we know you're wrong, why don't you tell me about yourself? Did you run from grief, or something else?” She smiled back at him. “A broken heart?”

“I'm not playing this game.” Because there was
something sweet and refreshing about her, and he didn't want to ruin it with the nightmares that had plagued him for months. Or the guilt that wouldn't go away. He figured it wouldn't matter. She'd go with the grief and probably make up something about romance gone wrong.

“What about the Johnsons? Why are they out here?”

“The Johnsons have a right to their privacy. Don't play this game with them.”

“I'm not playing a game, just asking a question. It's obvious they're hurting. It's obvious that they're kind and good. I wondered what happened to them, that's all.”

“And I'm not going to share their story.”

“Or your own.”

“You got it, Penny.”

“Don't call me that.”

“Fine. Penelope. Do people in Treasure Creek know who you are?”

She shrugged. “Some do, some don't. It isn't like there's a magazine,
Heiress Quarterly
, or some other ridiculous thing that tells about my life. No, I didn't openly offer my life story to everyone in town. Some knew without me saying a word. A few didn't have a clue and I didn't give them one.”

“I see.”

“Do you? Do you understand how wonderful it was to eat in a diner and not be recognized? I checked into the Inn and the clerk gave me a room with a view of the building next door. It was wonderful”

“Great.” If an heiress wasn't bad enough, make her
an heiress wanting to be normal, the type who kicked off the glass slipper and refused to kiss the handsome prince.

The handsome prince thought made him a little uncomfortable because just thinking about her as Cinderella made him envision himself as the prince she might kiss. That had to be proof that it was about time for him to head back for the real world. He was starting to think in terms of fairy tales, and that couldn't be good for a man his age.

So think of something else.
He shifted his gaze away from the Shearling coat in front of him and shifted his mind back to the footprints he'd seen.

She kept walking, and he let her get ahead of him. It gave him time to think in silence. It gave him a chance to study their surroundings, to look for anything out of place. Why would anyone want to follow Penelope Lear?

Maybe it was someone who knew what she was worth. Or knew what her father was worth? Maybe someone bent on kidnapping an heiress for a hefty ransom?

If she kept talking, kept getting under his skin, he might turn her over to whoever was after her. No, of course he wouldn't. He wasn't that kind of man. He'd spent last night pacing the floor after having nightmares about a young woman who had lost her life too soon.

He didn't want to have nightmares about Penelope being kidnapped. She might be a thorn in his side and the last woman he wanted to be stuck with out here, but he would keep her safe.

And the less talking they did, the better.

“Why are you walking so slowly?” She paused on the trail and waited for him to catch up. “Thinking.”

She nodded and didn't push. Instead she trudged on in front of him and left him with his thoughts, which now turned to his dad.

They hadn't talked much in the last few years.

His dad should have told him that a bone marrow transplant might save his life. No matter how stubborn the two of them had been, Tucker would have been there for his father. He would have given his marrow and then some to save his dad's life.

It had been the two of them for so long. The two of them against the world, until Tucker had decided to go to Seattle and find his mother. That's when his dad had dug in his heels. He claimed that Tucker had picked money and possessions over family, just like his mother had when she'd run off and left them.

There hadn't been a way to convince the old fisherman otherwise.

Tucker walked next to Penelope and she reached with her free hand to touch his, not holding it just letting her fingers drift over his. He glanced down and she smiled up at him, as if they were old friends.

For a second, a rare second, he considered that.

The moment didn't last, though. If he said a word, she'd have more questions. She'd dig deeper. That's the kind of female she was, the kind who wanted to explore all of the touchy-feely emotions she thought everyone was hiding.

“When we get to the house, I'll clean the fish and you should go sit down and put your foot up.”

She nodded a little. “Probably a good idea.”

“What? No arguing?”

“No arguing.”

She had slowed. He had been so busy thinking about his dad, about the young woman, Anna, he hadn't noticed. Now that he did, he also saw the tight line of pain around her mouth.

But she hadn't complained.

He was having a difficult time shoving her into the box he thought she should fit into. He'd had her pegged as another silly socialite. But maybe there was more to Penelope than he'd given her credit for.

Not that he was interested. He'd had enough of her kind. He figured she'd probably had enough of his. In her world, his kind were a dime a dozen.

 

Penelope paused at the bottom of the steps that led to the back door and into the kitchen. Her ankle throbbed and her arm was sore from the crutch. She leaned on it and looked up and she didn't want to walk up the three steps that would get her to the door.

“You going to make it?” Tucker held the stringer of fish and her pole. She tried to tell herself this was the lawyer whose picture she'd seen in town. Today he looked like one of the tour guides that had women flocking to Treasure Creek. He was denim, flannel and all male.

“Of course.” She managed a smile because she didn't need his help. He had that detached look in his eyes. She knew his kind. He had other things on his mind. He probably didn't realize they were having a conversation.

She knew because she'd seen that look in her father's eyes. All of her life she'd had conversations with men who didn't really listen.

“I'm going inside.” She made it up the first step and paused. With her hand on the rail she pushed herself forward, getting to step number two.

“Oh, good grief.” From behind her he scooped her up and held her close. “I'll carry you inside, you stubborn female.”

Penelope closed her eyes and nodded, not to hide from the pain, but to hide from those eyes of his. Because he looked impatient, but he also looked as if he cared. And he was strong.

He carried her down the hall of the darkened cabin, toward the glowing light of the kitchen and the warmth of the wood stove. She leaned into him, her hands on his shoulders. He had left the fishing pole and stringer of fish, but he smelled of the outdoors.

Wilma Johnson was sitting at the kitchen table. She looked up when they walked through the door. Penelope focused her attention on the older woman, who moved from her chair, pushing another chair out. Tucker sat Penelope down.

“What happened?” Wilma slid another chair out and pointed for Penelope to rest her foot.

“Nothing, just too much walking.” Tucker was backing toward the door. “I have fish to clean.”

“I'll take care of her for you.” Wilma bustled around the kitchen.

“She isn't mine.” He walked out the door.

“Such a grouch,” Wilma mumbled as she bustled around the room. “I have tea. Would you like hot tea?”

“That would be great. I'm freezing.” Penelope wanted to get up, to get her own tea. “I don't want to be waited on.”

How could she find a new life if this was always going to be her story: people waiting on her, treating her like the heiress, the woman who couldn't take care of herself.

“I know you don't want to be waited on.” Wilma lifted the teapot from the top of the stove and poured amber liquid into a tiny, porcelain cup. “Honey, you're hurt. When you're able, I know you'll help out around here. And the more you rest, the sooner that will be. You'll let the men go fishing tomorrow.”

“Do you plan to stay here long?” Penelope hadn't meant to push or to pry. But the simple question made Wilma turn away, wiping her hands on her apron.

“I'm not sure yet. We're still searching for…”

Searching for what? The way back to Treasure Creek? No, she thought they all knew the way back. But she took Tucker's advice and she didn't push. Whatever the Johnsons were going through, it was obviously a difficult situation.

It made Penelope's situation look simple, easy. Her dad had picked a wealthy man as a suitable match for her. Most women would probably love to have her problems. It was hard for her to consider it a problem when she looked at what the people in Treasure Creek were going through. Amy had lost her husband. People's businesses were struggling. Tucker hadn't reached his father before he died. The Johnsons, she didn't know their story, but she knew the wounded look in their eyes.

Prayer was new to her life. It had happened back
in Treasure Creek, at the back of the little community church, while the congregation sang a song of redemption. She had found faith, found God and found something that finally filled the emptiness that she had tried for years to fill in other ways.

“Would you like to help me peel potatoes?” Wilma set the cup of tea in front of her. “I mean, after you drink your tea. I thought we might have potato soup for dinner tonight. Instead, we'll fry potatoes to go with the fish.”

“Of course I can help.” She'd never peeled a potato in her life, but she could do it.

Wilma smiled. “That's wonderful. I'll get things ready and we'll peel potatoes and talk.”

Penelope sat back in her chair, the warm cup of tea held in her hands. She watched Wilma scurry around the kitchen, pulling things from drawers and cabinets, not at all upset by the lack of electricity or running water. Penelope tried to picture her own mother in this kitchen, doing these things. The image didn't work.