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Generally she was resentful of this situation, of having to explain herself, but something told her that it was very important that this man understand her, from the first. So she steeled herself, took a deep breath and tried to speak patiently. “Look, people tend to build whole cloth out of the fact that I’m sightless. I hate when that happens. I’m just someone who had a run of bad luck, who, for a very short time, was very sick, as a child. My blindness was the result.”
“And how did you end up here on an isolated mountain in the middle of Montana, in a museum of a mansion, with a seventy-five-year-old man?”
“Oh, that was my good luck!”
David clasped her chin gently, the better to look into her eyes to measure the truth of her words.
“But it’s true!” she insisted proudly, and he believed her.
“Then what does that make me?”
“The prodigal son, didn’t you say?”
David dropped his hand at that dash of cold water. “Well, hell, just look what happened to him, wasting his inheritance, crawling home with his tail between his legs.”
“True,” she laughed softly as she shut the door behind them, “but then, it was never only about money, was it?”
David turned slowly on his heel as she fiddled with the locks, his eyes half slits as he circled the huge foyer and tried to absorb all the old feelings that came surging back. Half a lifetime’s worth, he thought absently as he remembered how many times he’d been scolded as a child for sliding down the banister’s irresistible, gleaming curve.
“You’ll be wanting your old room back, I expect,” he heard the young woman say. “I’ve had it aired—not that it needed doing, of course. Our housekeeper is a tyrant, you know.”
“No, ma’am, I have no idea how demanding your housekeeper is,” he said, surprised back to earth by a vague surge of territoriality. But, after all, it was his home.
With the acute hearing of the blind, she blushed to hear his irritation. Awkwardly she cleared her throat. “I guess you’re wondering who I am, since we’ve never met.”
She was brave, he gave her that. “Actually, I thought you were the housekeeper, but I have a hunch you’re going to tell me otherwise.”
“Yes, I guess I should explain. It’s like, well, your father sort of adopted me. Not legally,” she hurried to explain, “but he took me in, oh, it’s been quite a while, now. You could say that John was sort of my guardian. My name is Ellen Candler,” she announced, her hand thrust forward.
Staring down at her small hand, David hesitated, then clasped it in his own with casual politeness.
“Oh, you work outdoors!” Ellen cried, surprised by his calluses.
“Very good, Miss Candler,” David said with a faint smile. “I’m a forest ranger, back east.”
“Yes, I remember now. You live in New York and work up in the Adirondacks. John told me.”
Abruptly, David dropped her hand. “I daresay he did.” Her apparent intimacy with his father struck an uncomfortable chord. Honed to a cordial detachment with the rest of the world, David had long since learned to keep his own counsel. But that didn’t stop him from wondering about the exact definition of guardian.
Oblivious to David’s turmoil, Ellen chugged along. “You must be very tired after that drive, Mr. Hartwell, um, David, not to mention your long plane ride. Would you like to rest or would you prefer your dinner first?”
“If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d just like to take my bag upstairs and maybe think about food a little later.”
“Of course, whatever you wish,” Ellen agreed softly, hearing his shoes tap the marble tile as he mounted the steps. “Oh, and Mr. Hartwell—David—”
Ellen heard him pause. “I really am so sorry for…that John…your father…I really am sorry for your loss.”
Half turning, David stared down at Ellen, her upturned face a delicate shadow in the early evening light. “Thank you, Miss Candler. I’m sorry for your loss, also.” He watched as her green eyes misted over with his quiet words.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “John was very good to me.”
“Yes, well…” David left off, unsure what to say. He was grateful when she walked away, disappearing through a side door. Taking the steps slowly, he studied the winding staircase, trailing a light hand along its polished banister. Reaching the upstairs landing, he fought an impulse to throw his leg over the handrail and hurtle back down to the ground floor. Older and wiser, his long stride guided him down the familiar hall to his bedroom. His hand on the doorknob, he entered cautiously, but Ellen Candler was right. It felt as though he’d been gone hours, instead of ten years, thanks to the vigilance of that efficient housekeeper. No doubt his father had given strict orders to have his room kept in readiness. Still, it was creepy to think that a stranger had been rooting among his possessions, lifting things, peeking into drawers, glancing through his books. But it was what he himself did now, feeling like an outsider as he discovered the treasures of his childhood. A battered copy of The Catcher in the Rye, his bottle top collection, pristine baseball cards still encased in their slender plastic cases.
Noticing his frowning reflection in a nearby mirror, David leaned in for a closer look. Silky, raven hair drooped across his forehead, skirting the long-lashed blue eyes his unruly hair tried to hide, balanced against a fine straight nose. The Black Irish lineage of his ancestors stared back beneath a thick and unforgiving brow, eclipsed by a violent network of lines that mapped the entire right side of his face.
He might have grown to be amazingly handsome, but he never thought about that anymore. Nearly fifteen years ago a cruel automobile accident had sent him flying through the windshield of a car and ended that possibility. The finest plastic surgeons in the country had done everything they could for the young teenager. The slim hope that modern medicine now offered with its newly developed techniques wasn’t remotely tempting to the man that child had become. David simply refused to endure any more skin grafting—and the excruciating pain that went with it—to effect only the slightest chance of change. Even now his right eye ached—nerve damage that no amount of surgery would ever repair. His raging headache he attributed to jet lag.
He hardly noticed his scars anymore, they had become such an integral part of him. On the other hand, rubbing his stubbly, hard jaw, he realized that he desperately needed a shave, and a shower wouldn’t hurt any, either. Stripping down to the buff, David soon had the bathroom steaming, his calloused hands lathering a hard, lean body toughened by eight years in forestry service. But he was tired, and the hot shower too soothing because, when he finished shaving, he collapsed on his bed, jet lag winning out.
Four hours later he woke to darkness outside his bedroom window. Switching on the low bedside light, he saw that someone had left a tall glass of orange juice, some hard cheese and a plate of biscuits. The redoubtable Miss Ellen, he guessed wryly as he gratefully devoured the cookies. Many thanks, ma’am, he silently saluted with the icy glass. And I do hope you enjoyed the view, he grinned as he glanced down at his naked body.
Oh, but she would not have, he reminded himself with a twinge of guilt for his foolish thoughts.
Half an hour later, dressed in chinos and a light summer sweater, David sauntered into the library. He frowned as he paused by the bar. Fortification? But before he could pour himself a drink, a faint rustle distracted him. He glanced in the direction of the fireplace, where a fire had been lit against the evening chill.
Nestled on the sofa, a book resting in her lap, Ellen Candler faced the fire. “David?”
“Yes, ma’am, it’s me,” he answered promptly.
She really was lovely, he thought, her pale skin glowing in the firelight, her red hair a golden waterfall burnished by the fire. How on earth had she managed to live here these past ten years, and he never heard a word of her existence? How careful the old man had been, to never mention her. How strange.
“Up kind of late, aren’t you? I was thinking of a drink. Care to join me?”
“I…um…” Ellen flushed, feeling foolish at her inexplicable attack of shyness. But David’s deep voice was so devoid of emotion, she wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Don’t feel obliged. I don’t mind drinking alone,” David said briskly as he splashed some bourbon into a glass and settled on the sofa. “By the way, thanks for that midnight snack I found beside my bed. I fell asleep, just as you predicted.”
“You had a very long day. When you didn’t show for dinner, I understood, but I thought you might want something when you woke.”
“You were right absolutely right. Those biscuits didn’t last a minute.” Tossing off half the bourbon, David rested an arm along the back of the sofa and stretched his feet toward the fire. Looking around the library, he could see that nothing much had changed here, either, aside from the presence of the young woman. Sitting beside her, David enjoyed the unexpected pleasure of perfume suddenly wafting to his nostrils. A flowery concoction, delicate and faint. Gardenias again. He hadn’t smelled perfume in years and discovered that he missed it. Wrapped in its elusive magic, he turned his head her way, wanting more.
“Is it hard to master Braille?” he asked, glancing at the spine of her book.
“Not if you want to read,” Ellen smiled, unaware of the captivating picture she made.
“What’s it called?” David teased, running his fingers over the dots and dashes. “I don’t know Braille.”
“The Return of the Native.”
“Never read it.”
“I love Thomas Hardy and— Oh, I never thought!”
David laughed even though it was something only half his face could do. Somehow, though, because Ellen could not see his distortions, he felt freer to emote. “Please, don’t apologize! There is an irony here that is irresistible! After all, I am a native returning home, too, in my own way.”
“Yes, well,” she said uncertainly, “as long as you understand that I meant nothing by it. I’m plowing my way through all Hardy’s books.”
“Jude the Obscure, too?”
“Jude the Obscure, too!” she admitted. “Hey, I thought you just said you’d never read Thomas Hardy.”
“I never said I hadn’t read old Thom Hardy, I just said I’d never read The Return of the Native.”
“Oh. Well, it’s my favorite.”
“Then I’ll put it on my list of books to read. Brilliant and beautiful! Seeing you now, I understand why my father kept you under wraps.” He was glad he could openly admire her, she certainly was a pretty little thing. More than pretty, quite beautiful, actually, even if she did look drawn and tired. John had shown good taste, but how on earth had he had the nerve to rob such a cradle? He watched as she played with her book, her face an easy read as she searched to uphold her end of conversation. Failing miserably, she gulped her silence like a fish and he supposed she was grieving, which would make conversation even more difficult. Theirs even more so. He wondered, too, how she felt about his father.
“Did you love my father?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Even David was shocked to hear the tactless question floating on the air. But he couldn’t bring himself to retract it. Something wicked in him wanted to know. No one who knew him would believe the way he was acting, behaving like a fool, barely in control of a conversation he’d never meant to begin.
“Sorry, Miss Candler. That was unkind, even for me. Maybe I’m more upset than I want to admit. I guess I’m not quite sure how to treat you, although I sure don’t wish to quarrel with you. As my father’s mistress, I know how much respect is due you.”
“His mistress?” Ellen gasped. “Oh, how could you think that? John Hartwell was the kindest, most generous man who ever lived, and he would have never…never— Oh, you dreadful man! How could you think such an awful thing?”
David’s face grew hot in the face of his mistake. “Hey, I just assumed…your living here all these years. You’re so beautiful, I just figured… Hell, why else would anyone who looked like you want to hide away on the top of a mountain?”
Ellen scrambled to her feet, fumbling for her cane. “I’ll tell you how it is, Mr. David Hartwell,” she exclaimed. “I was born here in Montana. My parents were attorneys down in Floweree and very good friends with your father. They were going about county business when they were killed in a plane crash, six years ago. I was seventeen—an only child of only children—about to be fostered when John heard and intervened.” How to explain the kindness of an old man to a young girl? Taking her in at an age when most men were planning their retirement, asking nothing in return except some decent dinner conversation. Surely he had given more than he received, but how to explain that to David? Her words sounded inadequate, even to her own ears.
“Took you in, you mean?” he asked uncertainly, amazed at his father’s generosity.
“Took me in,” she repeated proudly. “A grief-stricken teenager who also happened to be blind. Quite a handful for a man about to settle into his senior years, don’t you think? Young as I was, I knew that. I knew the generosity of his act. The day I walked through his front door, I vowed never to make him regret his decision, and he never did!”
David stared into her grass-green eyes, shiny with tears—or was it anger? It didn’t matter. The look she harbored was unforgiving. “Look here, Ellen, I didn’t know.”
Ellen’s body language was her answer to the apology in his voice. She was rigid, her breathing shallow, her voice arctic and impersonal, when finally she spoke. “My cane, please. I thought I left it near the fireplace.”
He found it at once, a beautifully carved mahogany staff inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He’d bet anything it was an antique, and a gift from his father, but he didn’t dare ask.
“Thank you,” she said coldly. “Now, if you’ll point me toward the door, I seem to have lost my bearings.”
Turning her in the direction she requested, David’s fingers clasped Ellen’s shoulders, his touch light. But her stiff resistance made him want to shake her. “Listen, Miss Candler, I’m only trying to understand how things were. There was a lot of distance between my father and me, and now I’m here, I’m beginning to see it was greater than I thought. I mean, look how it is for me! He never even mentioned you, for Pete’s sake! Don’t you think there’s something odd in that?”
He must have touched a chord because he felt her ease up, ever so slightly. “I suppose,” she admitted slowly.
“Yes, you had best!” David agreed with mock severity. “I don’t suppose you have any idea why he kept your presence a secret from me?”
“None whatsoever!” A thin chill clung to Ellen’s words. “I didn’t even know he had. I always assumed you knew about me. After all, he talked about you!”
“And you never thought it strange that we never met?”
Ellen frowned. “Of course I did, but after a while I just figured you were busy and couldn’t be bothered with an old man and a blind, adolescent girl.”
“I would never be so unkind!”
“How could I know that?”
“Why would you not? Did John portray me as some sort of monster?”
“A monster?” she repeated, vaguely amused.
And in that instant, in the innocence of her smile, David knew that Ellen knew nothing about his scars, that his father had been kinder than expected, and he was grateful. Although he had long learned to live with his disfigurement, regret was an old wound that never fully healed. Ordinarily he was philosophical about those things beyond his reach, but something about Ellen had touched him, and for all she confused him, she seemed a gentle, straightforward soul. And then, certainly she was a great beauty, and he was a great respecter of beauty, he himself so badly maimed.
She sighed so charmingly he wished they could call a truce and begin again. But then, he wished many things that were never going to happen, and wishing had made him a bitter man. So he shrugged away his curiosity and bartered her ignorance for a rare moment of peace, when he could pretend for an hour that he was normal and uncut. He cupped her cheek, watched as she blushed, and was grateful that, for once, it had nothing to do with revulsion. “I give you my word, Ellen Candler, that for as long as I know you, I will never willfully cause you pain.”
Since she couldn’t see the sincerity in his eyes, her only gauge was the sound of David’s voice. She stepped back, hoping she was out of range of his touch. She wasn’t sure she wanted his protection, wasn’t sure if this knight’s armor was all that shiny, even if he was John’s son.
“Harry Gold, your father’s attorney, will be here tomorrow. He said he had important things to say about John’s will.”
Perceiving that Ellen was trying to create a physical distance, David was careful not to trail her. “I know Harry quite well. He helped my father to raise me, after my mother died.”
“That’s good. Then you have someone you can trust. And now, Mr. Hartwell,” Ellen sighed, unable to fight the heaviness in her heart, “if you don’t mind, I’m very tired and I’d like to go to bed.”
Not daring to argue with the sadness in her eyes, David watched as Ellen left, her path unerring as she headed for the door. The tables turned so swiftly, he was helpless to do anything but stare as she closed the door behind her. He stood lost in thought until the night chill finally roused him. Throwing a fresh log on the fire, he found the decanter of bourbon and retrieved his glass. It would be a long night and he had no other friends.
Chapter Two
Harry Gold, attorney for the late John Hartwell, arrived promptly at ten o’clock the next morning. The witching hour for lawyers, Ellen mused as she made her way to the library. As far away as the hall, her sensitive nose picked up the aromatic scent of an expensive cigar that always seemed to be in the air when Harry was around. Harry would probably die with a Havana clenched between his teeth. Turning the doorknob, she tensed involuntarily. Cigar smoke may have disguised any scent of David Hartwell she might recognize, but when he cleared his throat, she knew he was in the room. Her red curls severely anchored by tortoiseshell combs, her stiff spine sent an unmistakable message as she entered the library.
To David, looking up as he pored over some papers, Ellen looked every inch a queen as she glided across the room. Damned if she wasn’t intent on behaving like one, too, he grinned as he watched her raise her elegant chin and purse her dainty pink lips against any threat of conversation. From him! Harry Gold was another matter altogether. He watched as Harry hurried to her side, whispering his condolences, positioning a chair for her, assuring her comfort. Feeling slighted, David pulled his chair alongside Ellen’s and sat so heavily the chair squeaked in protest. By the way she frowned, he guessed that Ellen would have liked to protest, too, and it gave him bad-tempered satisfaction. But if he were honest, his temper had more to do with the hangover he had given himself than anything Ellen had done. Still, he felt as though he’d just won a small skirmish in a larger battle. What that battle was about, he had no idea, only that he and Ellen were its main combatants—its only combatants—and that she was fully engaged, too. Well, let the hostilities begin, he thought bitterly as he gave the go-ahead to Harry Gold.
“For the record, David, my condolences. Unfortunate business, eh? So sudden—John’s passing, I mean. You should have been told that he was ill but he refused to tell you. Kept saying he’d bounce back. He didn’t want you to think that you must come home, not if you didn’t want to.”
“Harry, we all knew it was for the best I left Montana. Better for me, better for my father.”
Harry shook his head, his mouth a melancholy twist. “We knew you believed that, David, but we never could figure out how to persuade you otherwise.”
“Too many memories,” David explained with shrug. “You know that better than most. There were some things I had to do alone. Make my own way, on my own terms.”
“Ah, well, what’s done is done. Shall I start with the pensions and endowments? There are quite a few.”
“Perhaps we might skip over them,” David suggested. “After all, we’re among friends, aren’t we, and I’m sure my dad wouldn’t have wanted us to drag this out. The endowments are probably everything they should be, especially since you drew them up. Don’t you agree, Ellen?”
If she didn’t understand his words, she surely understood his meaning when David covered her hand with his own. “Of course,” she agreed quickly, startled by the unexpected contact.
“Good,” he said softly, his hand hovering over hers. “Please, continue, then, Harry. We won’t say another word.”
“Well, then. In aid of cutting to the chase…” Throwing down the papers he was holding, Harry leaned back in his chair, his fingers a temple over his vast belly as he fastened his eyes on the ceiling. “John Hartwell has left the bulk of his estate to you both—equally.”
“Everything left is to be split down the middle. My guess is about two million each. With certain stipulations,” he warned as he lowered his eyes to face his audience of two. “Certain ironclad stipulations,” he added ominously.
This time it was Ellen who reached for the hand that had late imprisoned hers, her sightless eyes wide with surprise. David stared at the long, delicate fingers that curled around his hard knuckles, his mouth a tight slash that pulled at his scars. He watched her green eyes fill with tears, her lips quivering as she spoke.
“David, I had no idea, you must believe that! I mean, I knew he was leaving me something, he’d told me so. But two million dollars! I’ll sign it back over to you immediately. I only need a very little to tide me over. You’re his son, after all. I don’t deserve this.”
Harry reshuffled his papers and peered over his glasses. “I think, young miss, that perhaps I ought to finish before either of you makes any decisions. These ironclad stipulations, you see…” he explained, almost apologetic. “The situation is such that—I’m sorry, David, but this is the case—that you, ‘said David Hartwell, is required, in order to meet the terms of the will, to attend to the well-being of one Miss Ellen Candler, for the next four months…’”
“Excuse me?”
“‘…twenty-four hours a day,’” Harry continued, his voice becoming sharper and sterner, “‘seven days a week, until such time—deemed by her doctors, in writing—as no longer essential to her well-being.’ John has left behind for you, David, a sealed letter explaining his reasons. But in essence, if you refuse—or in the unlikely event that Ellen declines your help—” Harry concluded solemnly “—the entire estate is to be signed over to charity—pensions and endowments included.”
