The Man from Pine Mountain, Page 3

  Sean’s chin thrust forward mutinously, and he seemed about to refuse when Brett climbed out of his chair. Muttering something under his breath about “women’s work,” Sean did the chores grudgingly, quickly picking up plates, scraping the scraps into one bucket and dropping the silverware and plates into another bucket of soapy water, all the while casting Brett dark looks over his shoulder.

  Irene wrapped up a plate of food large enough to feed five hungry loggers, along with the promised berry pie. A shame, Libby thought, knowing that her mother’s appetite had waned to almost nothing.

  Night was approaching. The first stars winked in a dusky mountain sky and frogs began their soft chorus. An owl hooted quietly, and overhead a hawk swooped into the darkening branches of a pine tree.

  Libby’s father was busy overseeing the nightly ritual of the building of the campfire, where each night before bedtime the campers would sing songs, create skits and pray. “You go on home and take care of your ma,” he told her. “But leave the car—Brett, would you mind giving her a lift into town?”

  “No—” Libby said instinctively and her father looked up sharply. “There’s no reason he should have to drive clear into Cascade, when he only lives a few miles from here.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Brett assured her, his eyes darkening with the night.

  Libby’s heart began to pound erratically. She couldn’t imagine anything more difficult than spending the next half hour or so cooped up with him in the small cab of his truck. But she was stuck. Unless she wanted to be incredibly rude and ungrateful, she had no choice but to follow him down the road and over the bridge to the far side of the creek, where his truck was parked. He’d already unhitched the trailer, as he was planning to leave it at the camp until he picked up his horses after the last session.

  Libby climbed into the pickup and placed Irene’s basket of food on the seat next to her.

  “Scared?” Brett asked as he backed around and started driving slowly down the switchbacks of the mountainside.

  “Scared of what?” she repeated, knowing full well what he meant.

  “Of me.”

  “Hardly. Unlike Sean, I don’t believe you have the wrath of God at your command.”

  “I didn’t think a preacher’s kid would lie.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You’re scared.”

  “I can’t imagine why I would be,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and wondering how it was that this man could reduce her to feeling like a girl in junior high school. She was usually levelheaded, she was considered bright by her professors, and she was well on her way to a career in nursing. She’d dated a lot of different boys and men—none of whom had interested her, particularly—and she was not scared of some hermit who spent his life in a ranger station in the wilderness.

  “I scare you because you don’t know what to do with me,” he said, with predictably brutal honesty. “I stepped on your toes with that kid, and you want to step a little harder on mine.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Mmm…” As he rounded a curve and the headlights threw twin beams onto the road, a doe and two fawns froze directly in the pickup’s path. “Oh, hell!” He downshifted, swerving to avoid hitting the animals as he slammed on the brakes. The basket pitched off the seat and crashed to the floor. Seat belts grabbed and locked. Libby’s head banged against the passenger door window. The truck bounced as the wheels skidded, throwing up gravel, screeching angrily. Libby’s stomach lurched.

  Bounding across the road, the deer disappeared into the forest as the truck jolted to a stop.

  “You okay?” Brett asked as the truck idled on the shoulder.

  “I think so.” Heart pounding, she touched her head and winced.

  Brett’s expression was grim as he opened the glove compartment and extracted a flashlight. Muttering under his breath, he clicked on the beam and shone the light upon her forehead. Gingerly he examined the knot that was growing beneath her skin. His fingers were gentle as they probed, but they didn’t alleviate the headache steadily growing behind her eyes.

  He touched a tender spot, and she sucked in her breath and grimaced, shoving aside the flashlight. “I said I’d be okay.”

  “I’m sorry.” The words, so solemn, seemed to reverberate through the cab.

  “It—it’s all right. Not your fault. An accident.” She managed a small grin when she saw the doubts in his eyes. “Don’t worry. Really. I’m tougher than I look. And I’ve got a thick skull. If you don’t believe me, just ask my dad. He’ll tell you.”

  Brett didn’t so much as crack a smile. “I’d better get you home.”

  Picking up the basket and replacing it on the seat between them, he cast Libby one more worried glance. “Maybe I should take you into Bend to see a doctor.”

  “All that way? It’s just a little bump on the head.”

  “You don’t know—”

  “I do know. I’m a nurse, remember?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But soon. And I’ll be okay. I don’t need a doctor,” she said, thinking of the long trip to Bend for medical attention. Cascade needed its own clinic, had needed one for years, but no doctor wanted to spend his time with the few patients the town had to offer, when he could make more money in the city. Even attempts at sharing one general practitioner with a couple of other small towns hadn’t worked, and the GP who had tried to run a three-town practice—Dr. Sherman—had left central Oregon years before and moved to Eugene.

  Brett shoved the truck into the gear and guided it back onto the narrow road. The silence was deafening. Only the growl of the pickup’s oversized engine and the whine of tires against pavement as the truck turned onto the county highway broke the noiselessness. Libby leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes against the dull ache inside her skull. What a day. She sighed, and didn’t open her eyes again until she felt Brett downshift and the pickup slowed in the gravel drive of the parsonage.

  Lights glowed in the windows of the small frame house located on the lot adjacent to the century-old church. She tried to argue that Brett didn’t need to help her inside, but he wouldn’t hear her arguments. He didn’t admit it, but Libby was certain he wanted to keep his eye on her a little while longer and assure himself that she wouldn’t collapse as a result of the bump on her head.

  Her frail mother was glad to see them. From her position on the couch, she clicked off the television with the remote control, smiled warmly at Brett and insisted, as Libby was reheating Irene’s chicken and dumplings and trying to cut wedges from the mangled berry pie, on hearing all about the first day at camp.

  Her mother’s eyes, though sunken, sparkled at Libby’s stories, and Libby’s heart went out to the woman who had raised her. Once robust, with thick black hair and a more-than-ample waistline, Marla Bevans was a mere shell of her former self.

  She ate more heartily than she had in the few days Libby had been back in town, and when she was through with a sliver of pie and had heard all of Libby’s and Brett’s stories about the camp, she was worn out.

  Libby helped her into bed while Brett lingered in the living room. “He’s handsome, isn’t he?” her mother asked as she eased her thin body between the sheets.

  “Who? Mr. Matson?”

  “I distinctly remember he told you to call him Brett,” Marla said softly.

  Libby lifted a shoulder and poured water from the bedside pitcher into a glass. “I suppose. Some people might think he’s handsome.”

  “Some? Oh, come on, Libby. Every female under fifty in this town does—and some of them older than that do, too.” She chuckled, coughed, and took a sip from the glass that Libby held ready.

  “Do they?”

  “Mmm… But he hasn’t shown much interest. Even when Sara Pritchert practically threw herself at him—and she’s one of the most sought-after girls in town—he wasn’t interested.”

  “His loss.”

  “I don’t think so.” Her mo
ther’s eyes gleamed in the light from the single lamp on the night table.

  “Mom…”

  “I saw the way he looked at you, Libby. I’m not too far gone to recognize when a man is smitten with—”

  “Smitten? Mom, listen to yourself!”

  “Well, I’ll make no excuses.” Her frail fingers pulled the bed covers close under her chin. “You know that I’d like to see you married before I leave this earth. Truth to tell, I want nothing more than to hold my grandchild one time, but I know that might not be possible.” Libby started to protest, but her mother twined her fingers through her daughter’s. “More than anything, I just want to see you happy.”

  “Marriage doesn’t necessarily guarantee happiness,” Libby said sagely, and her mother offered her a knowing smile. Libby couldn’t believe they were having this conversation about Brett Matson, a man she’d only met this very day—a man who seemed intent on baiting her! She wondered if the disease had affected her mother’s usually clear mind.

  “Brett’s a good man. Hardworking. Decent. Handsome. Sexy—”

  “Mom! Listen to what you’re saying!”

  “Well, I’m not a dead woman yet, and just because I’ve been married to a preacher doesn’t mean that I can’t enjoy the body that God gave me. Your father and I love each other very much, and nothing is more precious than the times we’ve been together.”

  Libby flushed scarlet. “This is crazy talk….”

  “No, it’s not. I just don’t have time to beat around the bush.” With a wink, her mother said, “Just humor me. Don’t rule Brett out.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud—”

  “Now let’s pray.” Her mother closed her eyes and murmured a soft prayer. Silently Libby added a request for her mother to return to health, and she ignored the mention of Brett Matson in Marla Bevans’s litany.

  Did her mother honestly think that she would even consider a date with Brett—much less marriage?

  Yet, as she turned down the lamp and closed the bedroom door quietly behind her, she felt her heartbeat quicken. Just the knowledge that Brett was in the house caused her pulse to increase in tempo.

  Telling herself she was, in her own way, as silly as her mother, she walked down the short hallway to the living room and wondered how she was going to get Brett Matson out of the house—and out of her life for good.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The object of Libby’s mother’s prayers was waiting in the living room. Drumming restless fingers silently on the windowsill as he stared into the night, Brett glanced up at the sound of her footsteps.

  Libby felt a little stutter in her heartbeat. Silently she told herself that she was being foolish, that she was under the influence of her mother’s silly notions, and yet, when she caught him looking at her with his magnetic amber eyes, she found her lungs suddenly straining for air.

  “She all right?”

  “I think so.”

  She walked with him to the front porch of the little house. Only an infrequent car crawled along the night-shaded streets, and the streetlights were few and far between.

  “Your mother’s a brave woman,” he said.

  “Always has been.”

  “Like you?”

  The question hung in the air between them. “I’m afraid of some things,” she admitted.

  “But not me.”

  “Definitely not you.”

  She saw his smile stretch white in the darkness, and she knew an instant of fear before his arms surrounded her and he gathered her close. His lips were unerring as they found hers. She let out a startled sound, but it was cut off by the warm pressure of his mouth. Though at first she struggled, he didn’t stop kissing her, and slowly she relaxed, giving in to the magic of the night and the strength of his arms. He smelled of leather and horses, pine needles and coffee. A piece of her melted inside, and she opened her mouth ever so slightly. With a groan, he pulled her closer still, until the thin wall of their clothes caused friction between their bodies.

  Her skin suddenly warm, Libby felt light-headed, and was only vaguely aware of the impression of his hand against the small of her back. Her knees were unsteady, and she nearly fell over when he broke off the embrace as suddenly as he’d swept her into his arms.

  “Damn!” Running the back of his hand over his mouth as if wiping away the kiss he’d stolen from her, he took a step away from her. It was as if he needed to put distance between his body and hers. His breathing was hard and ragged, and nearly as shallow.

  “D-don’t ever do that again,” she stammered, though her voice held little conviction.

  “Never?”

  “That’s right.”

  His eyes sparked at the challenge. “I don’t think that’s possible with you.”

  “Try,” she said, and he grinned, a wicked curve to his lips.

  “You try, Miss Libby.” With that, he kissed her again, and before she could reach back to strike him, he stepped agilely away and headed for his pickup. “Well, one thing’s for certain. That bump on your head sure didn’t affect your lips.”

  “You miserable—”

  The truck started with a roar, and she was left standing in the middle of the porch. She was ready to spout a stream of invectives when she heard a quiet chuckle from the open window of her mother’s bedroom.

  Great. Just great! she thought, taking solace in the fact that things couldn’t get much worse.

  Or could they?

  * * *

  Brett became a regular fixture at the camp. When he wasn’t putting in long hours at the ranger station, he found time to ride his horse down to the camp, much to the delight of the children. He showed them how to whittle a whistle, how to track a deer, and how to ride a horse through the shallows of White Elk Creek. Though he never stayed for the campfire sing-along or for prayers, he spent more than his share of hours at the camp, and Libby found herself less antagonistic toward him.

  True, he unnerved her, caused her pulse to jump and her temper to flare at unexpected moments, but for the most part he was pleasant enough, helping her father chop wood and repair some of the buildings, and complimenting Irene Brennan on her meals. He ate dinner at the camp every night, and were it not for the hours he spent helping out, Libby would have thought that he was using her father for a free meal. But those dinners were given gratefully, for Brett was the hardest worker in camp.

  From the craft cabin, Libby had often watched him splitting kindling, his tanned muscles fluid and gleaming with sweat, his hair dark and damp as it fell over his forehead. She noticed the way black hair flared across his chest and angled mysteriously down past his navel. His jeans were always low-slung, riding somewhat precariously on his slim hips. More often than she liked to admit, she’d forgotten the project on which she was working while she watched him. Then a camper’s voice would bring her out of her daydream, and she’d once again pay attention to the baskets being woven or the sketches being drawn by inexperienced hands.

  Brett was firm with the horses, gentle, but in complete control. He lead the smallest children around the paddock on the back of a giant horse named Hercules, and the wide-eyed rider would cling to the saddle horn and grin widely. He showed the children how to brush the animal’s hide and cinch a saddle tightly. He even took the time to let the kids watch him remove a pebble that was lodged in Hercules’s hoof. Once he took part in a water fight that several of the kids had started, and ended up squirting Libby with the hose.

  She squealed and wanted to be angry with him, but the dancing mischief in his eyes was so boyishly charming that she forgave him instantly, and she had to force her eyes away from his naked, dripping chest and his flushed face. He was dangerous, no doubt about it, and her response to him was ludicrous. She’d heard of women who’d fallen for the wrong man, and she told herself firmly that she wouldn’t be one of them.

  Two weeks passed, and she let down her guard a bit. Then, one night, he came upon her alone. She’d thought he’d already left, having watched
him climb astride Hercules and head up the trail to the ranger station.

  She was in the stables, watching the little foal nurse, his fluff of a tail wriggling, when the door creaked open and she turned to find Brett, stripped to his jeans, standing silhouetted in the doorway. The light from the campfire was to his back, the star-studded sky a canopy above him.

  Her heart trip-hammered at the sight of him. “You—you startled me,” she said, rubbing her arms as if chilled, though the temperature in the barn still hovered near seventy.

  He swallowed, as if his throat had gone suddenly dry. “Forgot something,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers as he crossed the dusty floor and reached into a saddlebag hanging from a nail driven into one of the support posts. Lantern light caught on the silver band of his watch as he slipped it over his wrist. “Aren’t you going into town?”

  She shook her head. “Dad…he’s going to stay with Mom for a few days. Irene and I can handle the camp. Things are settling down. He’ll…he’ll be back Monday morning, after services on Sunday.”

  In the darkness, Brett’s gaze landed full on hers. Her heart missed a beat, and she licked her lips nervously.

  Electricity seemed to sizzle in the barn. Libby couldn’t force her gaze from his. She felt him drawing nearer to her, knew she had to turn and run, or at the very least put up a hand to ward him off.

  Instead, she quivered inside, and when Brett took her into his arms, she lifted her face of her own accord, her mouth waiting, her lips accepting as he kissed her, long and hard, drawing the breath from her lungs, touching the depths of her soul.

  This is insane, a part of her cried in silent rebellion as the rest of her surrendered utterly to the primal assault on her senses. She clung to him, and her anxious lips opened willingly to the eager ministrations of his tongue. Liquid and warm, her body seemed to dissolve as a tide of emotion tore through her body and soul.