ALL NIGHT LONG: Chapter Two
"July 20, 1832, Michigan
Territory: "I should fight for this land were it mine. Cyrus calls me a
philosophizing Fool, but I cannot help but feel a profound sympathy for
our Enemy." -- Lieutenant Lewis Hudson, from a letter to his mother Augustina"
Annie lost her way twice
before she found Magnusson Road and now, driving slowly behind a
road-hogging tractor piloted by an overalled gnome, she read the mailboxes planted
along the rough, narrow road.
"Bingo!"
She squinted against the
early evening sun at a mailbox with the name
MAGNUSSON painted in square,
black letters. Below it, in a fancier script, were the words: BLACK HOLLOW FARM.
She turned onto the bumpy
gravel drive. The house and outbuildings were about a half mile off the
road, with most of the house hidden behind towering pines and oak trees
that looked as if they'd been around since the Cretaceous period.
"Oh, my," she murmured as
she brought her rental compact to a halt in the yard, in front of the biggest
Victorian farmhouse she'd ever seen.
With its peeling white paint
and spacious sprawl, resulting from a time when extended families still
lived together under one roof, the house oozed atmosphere. She almost expected
an ample-hipped, big-bosomed woman to walk out onto the porch, wiping flour-dusted
hands clean on her apron, and invite her inside for coffee and apple pie.
Annie switched off the car
engine, peering up at the two-story house--nearly three, with that tall
attic. Dairy farming must pay better than she'd thought. With any luck,
Farmer Magnusson would be home. She'd decided against calling ahead, since
experience had taught her that people were less likely to be difficult
if they had to look her in the eye.
She got out of the car and
surveyed the neatly mown rolling lawn, the clothesline hung with towels
flapping lazily in the breeze, and fields of sweet-smelling alfalfa.
The place was as quiet, as
peaceful, as a shrine.
"Well, Lewis," she said softly.
"I'm here."
Here, right where the frontier
US Army had camped on a hot July night in 1832. No farmhouses or picturesque
red barns existed then; only prairie valleys, bluffs, and virgin forest.
Right here, Lewis had written his last letter, its tone tense and weary.
Here, he'd spent the last hours of his life and here, if her hunch was
correct, he'd been killed.
A shiver took her, but she
dismissed it and turned back to the house. Its wide, pleasant porch even
came complete with a rocking chair and swing.
"God, how Norman Rockwell
can you get?" she said out loud, oddly fascinated by this Victorian monstrosity
before her.
But after hours in airports
and on planes, she wouldn't mind kicking off her sandals and curling up
on that swing with a cold lemonade, listening to ice cubes clink against
the glass as they melted. How nice it would feel to press a cool, sweating
glass against her forehead.
Wisconsin in July was as
hot as a Louisiana bayou. The humidity glued her ivory silk shell and navy
cotton batik skirt to her skin--and the heat didn't do much to help settle
the ball of worry roiling in her stomach.
But the time had long since
passed for second thoughts.
Annie opened the car trunk
and removed her Nikon 35mm camera--Old Faithful--and slipped the strap
over her head, glad to have its familiar weight around her neck.
She walked up the porch steps
and, although fairly certain no one was home, raised a hand to knock on
the old-fashioned screen door. But just before she banged on the wood,
a loud barking erupted behind her.
Dog!
Nasty, barking, biting, snarling
creatures!
With a shriek, Annie yanked
open the screen door and let it slam shut behind her. A knee-high missile
of gold-and-white fur with snapping teeth skidded to a halt at the door
and set up a furious barking.
This wasn't good--Magnusson
was bound to be just a wee bit annoyed at finding her there to begin with,
much less parked inside his house.
"Hush," she snapped, although
the dog was only doing what dogs do. "Stop it! For God's sake, you'll pop
out your eyeballs if you carry on like that."
She planted her fists on
her hips and stared hard at the collie. He barked again, but his tail swished
a little.
"Where's your rotten master,
hmmm?"
The dog growled, tail gyrating
like a boat rotor.
"Now there's mixed signals
for you," Annie said with a sigh, turning to look around her temporary
sanctuary.
From what she could see from
the entry hall, the inside of the house looked a lot like the outside.
Well lived in and quaintly old-fashioned, with beautiful woodwork and architectural
detailing from a bygone era. A bit overdone to her taste, but still impressive.
The pine plank flooring could
stand some polishing, though, to make it gleam warm and golden. Too bad
the window shades were drawn. She wanted to open them, to let the sunshine
stream through the glass and brighten the hall, and touch the cool wooden
floor with its warm fingers of light.
The dog, which had been growling
nonstop, barked and dashed off so abruptly its nails skittered on the porch.
Now what?
Gravel crunched under footsteps
coming fast and hard. Annie stepped back from the door in alarm.
"Buck, shut up!"
At that curt, deep voice,
she took yet another step back. Some sort of tussle between man and dog
ensued on the porch, a chain jangled, and then the screen door slammed
open.
"Who the hell are you?"
Annie's mouth opened, but
no words squeaked past her dry throat.
A tall man stood before her,
framed in the open doorway and silhouetted by the strong sun, filling her
entire field of vision with broad, bare shoulders and red-gold hair gleaming
like fire. Then he stepped farther into the hall and she met ice-blue eyes
in a sun-browned face with reddish beard stubble and a mustache that needed
a trim as badly as his hair.
A barbarian god fallen from
Valhalla.
Her stomach made a little
flutter of dread--along with something else.
"I asked you a question,
lady. You got five seconds to answer before I toss you outside."
His jeans and boots were
filthy, and as he stood glaring at her he used his shirt to wipe dirt and
sweat from his face and chest--a supple, lithely powerful chest.
Good God, please don't let
this be her contrary old coot!
"I'm here to see Rik Magnusson,"
Annie said at last.
"You're looking at him."
The silence lengthened until understanding flooded his remarkable eyes.
He treated her to an unsubtle once-over before his gaze locked on hers
again. For an instant, something hot and angry and aware shimmered between
them. "You're that damned writer."
"Yes. Annie Beckett," she
answered, fighting the urge to back away from his too-forward stare or
pull the clinging silk away from her skin. "I wrote and told you when I'd
arrive. Remember?"
"And I left a message on
your answering machine that you couldn't come. You should've --"
"I wasn't home to receive
it," she interrupted, the lie slipping out easily. "I've gone to considerable
trouble for this trip, and we had a deal, Mr. Magnusson. I honored my end.
I expect you to honor yours."
His eyes narrowed. "Sorry,
but as I said on the phone, something's come up."
Sure. Like he had to braid
his mustache. Or go sharpen his ax.
Annie pulled an envelope
out of her purse. "And here I am, come all this way with a check for fifteen
hundred dollars." He looked down briefly, then raised his gaze to hers.
"It has your name on it, Mr. Magnusson, so you may as well take it."
He didn't move.
Fine. She'd been stonewalled
by the very best; she'd just shift her tactics.
Annie let her hand fall to
her side. "Look. We're not off to a very good start, and I'm sorry. I have
a job to do here and once it's done, I'll be on my way again. I'm not sure
what you expected, but as you can see, I'm just an ordinary woman with
a small suitcase and a big camera."
She laughed a little at her
joke. He didn't.
Wonderful. Humor-impaired;
not her favorite kind of human. Gathering her courage, she stepped forward--close
enough to feel the heat radiating from his bare skin and close enough to
see the mingled red-and-gold hairs on his chest.
Taking a deep breath, she
extended her hand. "Let's start from scratch. Hello, I'm Annie Beckett,
and I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Magnusson. I'm looking forward to taking
pictures at the Hollow. Please, let's work together."
Magnusson hesitated for a
long moment, but finally took her hand in a firm grip. His skin was work-roughened,
and he pumped her hand once before dropping it. Brief as it was, the contact
left Annie very aware that she stood before a half-naked man with hot skin
and eyes like ice.
After a brief, awkward silence,
punctuated by the frenzied barking outside, Annie said, "So...are you going
to invite me the rest of the way in or throw me to the dog?"
Something flickered across
his face--embarrassment, she hoped--before he gave a nod. "Come on in."
Annie's knees went rubbery
with relief, and she started after him, only to wait while he wrestled
free of his work boots. Fascinated, she watched the play of his back muscles
as he yanked at the ties.
The scents of sweat and barnyard
hit her. Honest smells and not exactly unpleasant, but she couldn't help
taking a step back.
At her movement he turned,
then stood straight and tall with a quiet, unapologetic pride. "I didn't
think you'd show up or else I'd have made sure I was squeaky-clean. I'll
go wash up before we talk."
"It's no problem," she said
quickly. "I'm used to men who smell of hard work and hard play."
"Is that so?"
Again, Magnusson ran a slow,
assessing gaze over her and Annie felt a sudden urge to tidy her frizzy
braid and smooth the wrinkles from her travel-rumpled clothing.
"I'm gonna wash up anyway,"
he said, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe you don't care that I
smell like shit, Miz Beckett, but I sure do."
He walked away without giving
Annie a chance to respond, and she eyed his long legs and lean, sun-browned
back. She was an artist, trained to see beauty--and, boy, did he have a
beauty of a behind in those tight, dusty jeans. Firm muscles, a roundness
so neatly outlined beneath worn denim that any woman would consider giving
that rear a proprietal pat--if only it weren't attached to six feet and
180 pounds of testy male.
Letting out a soft sigh of
appreciation, Annie followed him into a large kitchen--one of the fussiest,
maiden-lady-aunt kitchens she'd ever seen. The walls were a riot of Victorian
cabbage roses in muted tones of mauve, maroon, and hunter green, and an
old, hand-hewn china cabinet displayed a collection of antique china in
a gold-rimmed, delicate rose pattern. What had to be vintage Irish lace
curtains topped a wide bay window over the sink.
She couldn't imagine any
man spending time in a kitchen like this, much less cooking in it, and
she badly wanted to take a picture of Rik Magnusson standing against the
counter, all that lean, rapacious male beauty juxtaposed against rampant
femininity.
Then she noticed Magnusson
returning her stare. He stood in the bathroom doorway, just off the kitchen.
"What's with the camera?"
Annie realized she held it
in the ready-aim-shoot position. "It goes where I go. In fact, I always
feel a little naked without it."
Poor choice of words. As
a heated embarrassment spread through her, Magnusson's gaze lowered to
her breasts, where the damp silk let all the world know she wore a lacy
bra embroidered with white seed pearls.
When his gaze returned to
her face again, he said coolly, "I don't want you taking any pictures in
my house."
"That's a shame. It's a lovely
room."
He hesitated as if he meant
to say more, then scowled. "You look hot. Take what you want from the fridge
to drink. There's soda, iced tea, and juice."
"And milk?" she asked, making
a last stab at humor.
Magnusson didn't smile back.
"Always milk," he said, then shut the bathroom door with a bang.
Sagging back against the
counter with both relief and resentment, Annie glared at the door. Having
Thor the Thunder God crash her Rockwellian idyll was not what she'd
anticipated.
The sound of the shower cut
across her thoughts, and at once her mental camera provided a vivid shot
of water rivulets running down the lines of Rik Magnusson's strong, tanned
body.
She closed her eyes--not
that it helped much. God, what was wrong with her? Even if he was gorgeous
and she hadn't slept with a man since the last ice age, such thoughts were
just plain unprofessional.
Maybe she should get
something cold to drink, after all. Annie headed toward the refrigerator,
decorated with a motley collection of advertising magnets and a few whimsical
cows. These last must have been gifts, because the man of the house didn't
strike her as the whimsical sort, no matter what his kitchen looked like.
Annie grabbed a diet 7UP
and peeked at the other rooms. An old-fashioned parlor, situated opposite
a steep, dark staircase, was all she could see clearly, but what incredible
lines this old house possessed! Her fingers practically twitched to capture
the geometry of tall, stately windows and pocket doors, the lushly extravagant
curves of plaster cornices and scrolled woodwork. And, most interesting
of all, the walls were crowded with framed antique photographs.
The water shut off and Annie
tiptoed back to sit at the table. When the bathroom door open, she straightened.
Magnusson walked out, toweling
his hair day--and still bare-chested, to her dismay. The scent of damp
air, shampoo, and strong soap followed him.
"I'll grab a shirt, then
we can talk about what to do with you."
Annie frowned at his retreating
back. Just her luck he was the difficult type, and a shower hadn't improved
his mood at all.
She'd finished off the soda
before Magnusson returned. He wore a short-sleeved blue T-shirt shirt tucked
into clean jeans, and plain white athletic socks.
No-nonsense and utilitarian,
nothing flashy. But the shirt's color warmed his eyes and emphasized his
red-gold hair and tanned skin. The knit, wash-worn and thin, fit him as
if it were tailored to each line of muscle and sinew. His long, lean build
reminded her of cats--twitchy-tailed cats with unblinking eyes. Under his
regard, Annie shifted in her chair.
"Where would you like me
to put your check?" she asked, before he had a chance to say anything.
"Leave it on the counter."
He fetched a soda for himself, but instead of sitting at the table, he
leaned back against the counter, forcing her to look up at him.
The pop of the can and a
carbonated hiss sounded in the following silence.
"Too bad you didn't check
your messages before coming all this way and spending all that money,"
he said at length.
"Maybe, but the fact is that
I am here, so why not just agree to work together?" She stood and
propped the white envelope against the coffeemaker. "Or do you want to
see me squirm a little first because you're mad?"
Magnusson stared at her for
a moment longer, then took a deep swallow of his soda. "Just letting you
know where I stand on this. I don't want you here."
"And I don't like getting
screwed over," she retorted.
His mustache hitched up on
one said, either in a smile or a sneer. "Glad we cleared the air. Now,
I'm a busy man, Miz Beckett --" he bit out her last name in two staccato
syllables, like gunshots "-- and I don't want you causing me any trouble
or upsetting my dog."
Outside, the collie continued
his barking and growling.
"And I don't like people
thinking they can just walk into my house whenever they feel like it."
He paused, his mustache turning down in a frown. "But I guess you're right.
Since you're here anyway, I may as well take you to the Hollow."
A little bubble of hope rose
at this grudging offer. Maybe he wasn't such a bad sort, after all. "I'd
like that, thank you."
"But first let's get one
more thing straight. If you give me any reason to think you've not been
up-front with me about what you want here, I'll boot your behind right
off my property. Don't even think I won't do it."
Annie managed a smile, even
though she'd upset his dog, invaded his house, and been anything but up-front
with him. For now, what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
"Warning noted, Mr. Magnusson.
Shall we go?"