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He was right. She was freezing inside and out. If she didn’t get out of these wet clothes, she’d catch her death of cold. “Maybe…maybe I will change.”
He grinned, showing white, even teeth in his smudged face. “Fine. I’ll lay some things out in the bedroom and you can change in there. There’s a lock on the door, if you’re worried. I’ll be in the bathroom showering.”
It sounded reasonable enough. Maybe the guy was harmless. She nodded. “I’d appreciate some warm clothes.”
He disappeared down the hall, then returned a minute later and led her to the bedroom. “My things are way too big for you. But I found a flannel shirt and some sweats with a drawstring, so they should stay up okay. If you’re still cold, you can wrap yourself in a blanket. Just take one off the bed.”
“Thank you.” She was still hugging herself, shivering. As soon as he stepped out of the room, she shut the door and bolted the lock. After removing her soggy sneakers, she quickly peeled off her soaked jeans and blouse and hung them over the metal bedpost. Her underwear was damp, but she wasn’t about to part with it. She pulled on the long-sleeve shirt and baggy sweats and pulled the strings until they were cinched around her narrow waist.
For the first time she glanced at herself in the bureau mirror and shuddered. Who was this straggly, ragamuffin waif looking back at her with smeared makeup and disheveled hair? She looked like something out of a fright movie. Oh, well, the last thing on her mind was impressing anybody, especially her churlish stranger.
Gingerly she unlocked the door and peered down the hall. No one in sight. She heard the shower running in the bathroom. And—was it possible?—a deep voice was crooning a country-western song. The nerve of that man, to be singing so nonchalantly when they were in such a dire predicament!
She pulled a blanket off the bed, wrapped it around her shoulders and tiptoed down the hall past the bathroom. When she heard the shower go off, she scurried on to the living room and curled up on the couch before the fireplace—a little bug in a rug, as her mom used to say.
The man’s voice sounded from the hallway. “You through in the bedroom, miss?”
“Yes, it’s all yours,” she called back, quelling a fresh spurt of anxiety. Now what? Was she actually going to spend an entire night in this house? Was she safe?
After a few minutes, the man came striding into the living room in a fresh T-shirt and jeans. He was toweling his dark, curly hair. His eyes were still tearing. But without all the soot and grime, he looked uncommonly handsome. His strong classic features were as finely chiseled as a Michelangelo sculpture—a perfectly straight nose, high forehead and sharply honed cheekbones, a wide jaw and a full, generous mouth. Arched brows shaded intense brown eyes and the stubble of a beard shadowed his chin.
Frannie realized she was staring.
He tossed his towel over a chair and eyed her suspiciously. “Is there a problem, lady?”
Frannie felt her face grow warm. “No, I’m sorry. I was concerned about your eyes. I hope the smoke didn’t hurt them.”
“They smart a little, but they’ll be okay.” He sat down in the overstuffed chair and raked his damp hair back from his forehead. “What I want to know is how you got all that smoke backed up in your house like that.”
Frannie tightened the blanket around her shoulders. “I just started a fire, that’s all. How did I know it was going to back up into the house?” She tossed him a defensive glance. “I checked the flue, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
He sat forward and held his hands out to the lapping flames. “But did you check the chimney to make sure some bird hadn’t built a nest in it? Or the winds hadn’t stuffed it with debris? No telling how long it’s been since someone built a fire in that place.”
Frannie shook her head. “I didn’t think of that.”
“Next time, get yourself a chimney sweep before you go starting a fire.”
She bristled. “I will. First thing tomorrow. Or…whenever the rain stops.”
He coughed again, a dry, hacking sound that shook his hefty frame.
“You inhaled too much smoke. Maybe you should see a doctor.”
He laughed, and coughed again. “No way to see a doctor tonight. Maybe I’ll fix a little tea and lemon. Want some?”
She shivered in spite of the dry clothes and heavy blanket. “Yes, some hot tea would be wonderful.”
He stood and gazed down at her. “Listen, neighbor, if we’re going to spend the night together, there’s something you need to know.”
She gazed up at him with a start, her backbone tensing. The rain was still hammering the roof, its relentless rat-a-tat echoing the fierce pounding of her heart. “Something I should know? What’s that?”
He held out his hand. “My name. I’m Scott. Scott Winslow. What’s yours?”
She relaxed a little and allowed a flicker of a smile to cross her lips. “I—I’m Frannie. Frannie Rowlands.” She slipped her hand out of the blanket and allowed his large, rough hand to close around it.
He matched her smile. “Well, Frannie, it’s going to be a long night. We might as well make the best of it.”
Chapter Four
Frannie was on her guard again. She tightened her grip on the blanket wrapped around her, then glanced over at Ruggs curled contentedly beside the fireplace. If Scott Winslow tried anything suspicious, surely Ruggs would come to her defense. Wouldn’t he? Or would he just roll over and go to sleep and leave her to fend for herself?
“Sugar and cream?”
“What?”
“Your tea. Do you want it plain? With lemon? Or with sugar and cream?” A faint smile played on the man’s lips, but his eyes held a hint of something darker. Was it despair, nostalgia, remorse? “My mother was an Englishwoman. She always had a spot of cream in her tea.”
“Plain is fine for me. Just as long as it’s hot.”
While he fixed the tea, Frannie gazed around the room, assessing what sort of man she was keeping company with tonight. Please, dear Lord, don’t let him be an ax murderer! There wasn’t much to go on—a few books on a table, a radio on the counter. But no television, stereo or telephone. Nor were there any newspapers, magazines, knickknacks or family portraits in sight. And not even a calendar or a cheap print on the wall.
Who is this man? Frannie wondered. He’s anonymous. There’s nothing in this room that tells me who he is. Except perhaps his books.
She reached out from her blanket for the nearest book and turned it over in her hands. It looked like a library book, some sort of historical treatise. Did the man possess nothing of his own? As she put it back, she noticed an open Bible lying among the history books, philosophy tomes and suspense novels.
A man who reads the Bible can’t be all bad, she mused.
As Scott served the tea, she let the blanket fall away from her shoulders and accepted the steaming mug. With the tea warming her insides, her flannel shirt and sweats should be enough to keep her toasty. She put the mug to her lips and sipped gingerly, then nodded toward the stack of books. “You must like to read.”
He settled back in his overstuffed chair and took a swallow of the hot liquid. “Yes, I do. It’s one of my favorite pastimes.”
“Mine, too. When I have time.”
He flashed an oblique smile. “I always have time.”
“You’re lucky. I’m always juggling a busy schedule.”
“And mine is wide open these days.”
She ventured another observation. “I see you have a Bible.”
He nodded. “It was my mother’s.”
“Was?”
“Yes.” He paused, as if deliberating whether to go on. Finally he said in a low, abrupt voice, “She—she died.”
Frannie felt a jolt of emotions—sympathy, empathy, compassion and her own lingering pain. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s been a while.”
“How long?”
“Well over six months.”
Frannie turned the warm mug in her palms. “My mother died seven years ago, and I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
Scott looked away, but not before Frannie saw tears glistening in his eyes. His voice rumbled. “Seven years? Then it sounds like I’ve got a long way to go.”
Frannie searched for words. “Scott, I hope your mother’s Bible has been a comfort for you.”
“I’m trying to find in it what she found.”
“I’m sure she’d be pleased that you kept it.”
His eyes darkened. “It’s the least I could do.” He leaned forward and set his mug on the table, then folded his hands under his chin. His brows furrowed and the lines around his mouth deepened as he gazed at the flames. He was a young man, surely no more than thirty, but the heaviness in his expression made him look old beyond his years.
Frannie had the feeling he was debating whether or not to say more, perhaps even to open up to her about his feelings. She took the initiative. “Losing someone you love… There are no words for it. But it does help to talk about it, even when you don’t know what to say.”
His voice was noncommittal. “I suppose you’re right.”
“And sometimes talking to a stranger is easier than baring your soul to your loved ones.”
He nodded. “Ironic, but true.”
“When my mother died, I didn’t talk about my feelings for a long time. I was afraid my father and sisters would feel worse if they knew how much I was hurting.”
Scott gave her a probing, incisive glance. “Then how did you cope?”
She gazed at the flickering fire for several moments. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure what coping means. I just tried to make it through each day. I prayed a lot. Cried a lot. Ranted a little.” She held up the thumb-worn Bible. “And I looked for answers in this book.”
His lips tightened in a small, ironic smile. “So we have something in common. Two motherless orphans with a penchant for the Holy Scriptures. Extraordinary.”
“Not really. I’ve read the Bible all my life. You might say I was spoon-fed from the cradle.”
“How so?”
“My father’s a minister.”
He looked at her curiously, one brow arching. “Is that so? What’s it like?”
“Being a minister’s daughter?” She chuckled. “Don’t get me going on that subject.”
“Why not? The rain’s not letting up. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
Frannie shivered and pulled the blanket back up around her shoulders. He was right. The uncertainty of her situation struck her afresh. She didn’t know the first thing about this man. She might have stepped heedlessly into her worst nightmare. She would have to endure an entire night to find out. She drummed her fingers on the mug. “I really need to let my father know where I am. He’s such a worrywart. He might even come looking for me.”
“He’d be crazy to go out in this weather.”
It was true. Her father wouldn’t be looking for her. He had no idea she even needed him. Frannie sipped her tea. It was lukewarm now. She glanced at her watch. She had been here for nearly two hours. She was cold and exhausted. All she wanted was to be back in her father’s house, in her own bed, safe and sound.
But there was something in the remote, melancholy face of the man sitting in the chair beside her that touched her and piqued her curiosity. Staring morosely into the fire, he looked like the loneliest man in the world. Or maybe that’s the way he wanted it… To be alone. He hadn’t anticipated that he would have to rescue a damsel in distress and take her back to his cottage for the night.
Frannie shifted uneasily on the couch. She drew her legs up under her and tucked the blanket around her knees. Rain still pelted the roof and windows like an invisible intruder, demanding admittance. She cleared her throat and waited to see if her moody companion would break the silence. The rosy glow from the flames danced on his stalwart features, but he remained tight-lipped, stony-faced.
Finally she spoke his name, startling him out of his reverie. “Mr. Winslow?”
He stared at her as if he had forgotten she was there. “Did you say something?”
“Just your name.”
“I’m sorry. My mind wandered. I guess I’m guilty of that a lot these days.”
“No problem. It took me a year after my mother died before I could concentrate on anything again. People talked to me and I never heard a word. I’d try to work and end up staring at a shapeless mound of clay all day.”
Bewilderment flickered in his eyes. “You stared at a mound of clay? I’ve heard of many ways to express grief, but that’s a new one on me.”
Frannie broke into laughter. Scott joined her with a polite, baffled chuckle, but she knew he had no idea what was so funny. She covered her mouth to stifle herself. “I’m sorry. There’s no way you could know. I’m a sculptor. The clay had nothing to do with grieving. It’s my job. What I do.”
He grinned sheepishly. “Now I get it. I’m impressed. I’ve never met a sculptor before.”
She smiled. “Most people look at me with suspicion or pity. They figure I’m in my second childhood or never got out of my first. They can’t imagine a grown woman mucking around in clay all day.”
“Good training for a muddy night like this.”
“I suppose so.”
“And you’re doing what you love best.”
She arched her brows, wide-eyed. “How do you know that?”
He grinned. “I see it in your face. Hear it in your voice. You’re obviously passionate about your work.”
“I didn’t realize it showed.”
“Like neon lights.”
She felt a warm glow that had nothing to do with the fire. “So what do you do?”
He didn’t answer for a full minute. She was about to repeat the question in case he had reverted back into his reverie. But finally he spoke. “What do I do? I walk. I run. I collect driftwood on the beach. I read. I think. Sometimes I even try to pray.”
“Sounds like a very peaceful life. But I meant, what kind of work do you do?”
“I just told you.”
She laughed lightly. “You know what I mean. I assume you have a job to go to. You’re too young to be retired. Oh, I know. You’re on vacation. Renting this cabin for the summer.”
He shook his head, his expression clouding, as if he were deliberately stepping back behind a veil. “This isn’t a summer cottage. It’s my permanent home.”
