Publisher: InkBooks
ISBN: 978-1-4524-6191-5
Publisher: InkBooks
ISBN: 978-1-4524-6191-5
Buy Ebook: Smashwords • Barnes & Noble • Amazon • Kobo • Sony • Diesel • Apple: US · UK · CA · FR · AU · DE
Book Description: A forever kind of guy tangles with a rolling stone kind of woman... On a hot July night in 1832, a young infantry officer disappeared. Almost 170 years later, the search for what happened to him -- and why -- draws Annie Beckett and Rik Magnusson together in a passionate affair. She tells herself she can't stay. He decides he won't let her go. Annie and Rik are determined to overcome the painful obstacles of their pasts to find happiness, but history is about to repeat itself as timeless constants of human behavior -- love and honor, friendship and rivalry -- threaten their fragile bonds of love and trust.
This book was originally published by Avon Books in 1999, under the name Michelle Jerott.
"Fast-paced, compelling!" – Library Journal
September 12, 1832, Youngstown, Ohio: Oh, how I long for Peace,for an end to this Great Unknown. Find our son, Dear Sir, wherever he may be. Ease a Mother's broken heart, and bring my Boy home again. -- Mrs. Augustina Hudson, copy of a letter to Colonel Zachary Taylor
April 13
Mr. Rurik Magnusson
Black Hollow Farm
Magnusson Road
Warfield, Wisconsin
Dear Mr. Magnusson,
You don't know me, but I fervently hope you will take a moment to read my letter and consider the request you'll find herein. As you'll see by the enclosed book, I am a photographer/ writer of documentary stories with a picture-intensive format--that is, your basic coffee-table books.
For the past ten or so years, I've been working on a story involving the 1832 confrontation in Wisconsin known as the Black Hawk War. A particular incident is of importance to me, and I have firm evidence it involved an area of your land, which is now referred to as Black Hawk's Hollow. I am writing to request your permission to research and photograph this area. My work is nondisruptive and will only require as much time as it takes me to take pictures, make notes, and follow through with research in local museums and libraries.
I feel quite strongly about bringing this story to its close. I'd like to schedule the trip for July, and therefore would appreciate a response as soon as possible. Please feel free to contact me with any questions or concerns you may have.
Sincerely,
Annora Beckett, Author & Photographer
The Romance of Route 66, Hanneman Press
***
April 24
Ms. Annora Beckett
85 W. Chesterfield Street, #3B
Columbus, Ohio
Dear Ms. Beckett,
I do own a couple acres of woods called Black Hawk's Hollow, but old Chief Black Hawk never came anywhere near it, no matter what local legends say. Coming here would be a waste of time, so save yourself the trouble. I'm sending back your book. Nice job.
Regards, R. Magnusson
***
April 30
Dear Mr. Magnusson,
My apologies for not being clearer. I'm not researching Chief Black Hawk, but the journey of a young officer who fought in the war. Since this area of your land is mentioned several times in my primary sources, I would very much like to visit the landmark. Again, I assure you the nature of my work is not invasive. I'm sending another book, this one chronicling a race- car driver's season on the circuit. I think you'll see my work is inquisitive and honest, but never exploitive.
Please reconsider my request.
Sincerely,
Annora Beckett
***
May 10
Ms. Beckett,
Thanks for asking my permission first, but the Hollow is on grazing land for my dairy herd and I don't want strangers upsetting their routine. July isn't good for me, anyway. I'm returning your book again. Looks nice, but I don't have time to read it, and I make a point to never keep gifts with strings attached.
R. Magnusson
***
May 30
Dear Mr. Magnusson,
Pardon the tardy response, but I've been on the road a lot lately. Part of the job, I'm afraid. I also wasn't sure how to respond to your last letter. In my years of freelancing, I've worked with rodeo riders, long-haul truckers, train conductors, race-car drivers, military history reenactors, and fishermen and trappers in the Louisiana bayous, to name just a few. In addition, I've written pieces for national magazines which have required me to follow historic journeys, such as the Mormons' westward trek, old cattle-drive routes, and the trail taken by the Cherokees during their relocation. As a professional, I'm more than willing to work with you until we reach terms that meet your satisfaction.
I'm sorry you feel the books I sent came with some sort of 'strings' attached. Because I cannot present my case to you in person, I had hoped examples of my work would impress upon you the sincerity of my intentions and the depth of my dedication. My only purpose is to take photographs that will complement the text of my book.
I can promise that you--and your cows--won't even know I'm around. If my books are not proof enough of my intentions, I can offer you monetary compensation, one-half payable upon my arrival at the Hollow and the remainder due upon completion of my project. I often provide cash payments to those I work with, especially if I'll require a few hours of their time. No strings attached to this offer, Mr. Magnusson. Think of me as a contractor, if it helps, and I'm hiring you to help me complete an ongoing project.
Also, if July is not good for your schedule, I can make August, but would prefer not to wait much longer. Please be assured that my intentions are sincere and legitimate. I anxiously await your response.
Sincerely,
Annora Beckett
***
June 10
Ms. Beckett,
You sure are stubborn but have convinced me that you are serious. I'm not so sure about this money thing. Sounds like a bribe to me. How long will you need to be at the Hollow? The farm keeps me busy, and I don't want a bunch of people around, getting in my way.
Rik
***
June 15
Rik,
This will have to be brief, as I'm leaving for a short assignment soon. Your last letter made me laugh, because I'm usually not so pushy. I'm persistent only because I feel strongly about completing this story. You could say it's been a dream of mine for many years. I also laughed at the word 'bribe,' and it seems I'm not the only one here who's rather stubborn. The money is NOT a bribe and the amount is negotiable to a certain extent. We can talk about this more later, if you wish. As for how long I'd be at the Hollow, I estimate the project will take six to eight weeks to complete. I'm a stickler for doing thorough research. I can also assure you that only I, a suitcase, and a lot of camera equipment will arrive at your place. Which reminds me, if you agree to let me come to the Hollow, I'll need a place to stay. Are there any decent hotels or bed-and-breakfasts in or near Warfield?
I trust all is well with you. I've heard on the news the Midwest hasn't been getting much rain lately. I hope that's not causing you too much worry.
Please respond as soon as you can, so I can begin making travel plans.
Warmly,
Annie Beckett
***
June 23
Ms. Beckett,
Hope your assignment went well. Rain would be great, but it doesn't look like we'll get any soon. Since you won't give up and since July isn't much worse than any other time, I grant you permission to work at the Hollow and research your book. But only if it won't cause disruptions. As for the money, I guess a little extra is always welcome. I don't know about hotels. I tore out some pages from the phone book for you. Let me know when you'll arrive. The door's always open, but I'll need to tie up the dog in the yard. He bites. I'm in the barn by six every morning and often don't get in until after dark, so if you need me, leave a note by the coffeemaker. I'll find you.
Rik
***
June 28
Rik,
I am delighted everything worked out. My plane arrives in Madison on July 20. And, yes, do tie up your dog--I've been chased by more than my fair share of those creatures. I PROMISE there will be no trouble. Girl Scout's honor! As for the money, I'm willing to offer you a compensation of $3,000. I hope this will meet with your approval. I'm on the road again until July 19, so I won't have time to talk with you before I arrive in town. You can't change your mind now!
Oh, and thanks for the list of hotels. Not much to choose from, but I'll make do. Hope you get a little rain soon.
Annie
June 27, 1832, Dixon's Ferry, Illinois: We are preparing to march and so I must be brief, or I shall miss the post. I have read your last letter and beg you, Dear Mother, not to fear for my health. The weather holds warm and clear, and wild game is plentiful (Father would be keen to hunt here!) Indeed, I am in most excellent spirits! The Beauty of this land leaves me in much wonderment, and I am sending you these little sketches so you may see, through my eyes, the blue rivers and swaying grasses growing as high as my chest. Give my sisters my love and tell Emily the shirt is splendid, that I wear it with great pride and I hope to be home for Christmas to settle A Matter most dear to her sweet heart. With Affection, Your Obedient Son, Lewis. -- Lieutenant Lewis Hudson, to his mother Augustina
"Ow!"
Rik Magnusson sucked in his
breath as his bare toe hit a warped porch plank. He jerked straight at
the stab of pain--and sloshed hot coffee over his hand.
"Dammit!"
His curse cut across the
hushed quiet of dawn and startled a pair of mourning doves coo-cooing on
the porch rail into flight. If stubbing a toe wasn't enough to bring him
wide-awake at five-thirty in the morning, the hot coffee made sure of it.
Wiping his hand dry on his
jeans, Rik scowled at the board and reminded himself, as he had umpteen
times already this summer, that he needed to fix the damn thing as soon
as he could find a little extra time and money.
With a last muttered curse,
he limped to the far side of the wide porch and hitched himself up to straddle
the railing. Leaning back against a carved post, he sipped his coffee and
watched the early rays of sun spread a soft, golden glow across his 220
acres of land.
In the low light, the bare,
bone-dry patches amid his hay were less noticeable, although nothing could
hide the fact the corn was at least a foot shorter than it should've been
by now--or that it wouldn't take more than a single spark to start a flash
fire just about anywhere.
At the click of paws on wood,
Rik glanced down to see his collie, Buck, trotting toward him.
"But you gotta admit," he
said, putting his cup aside to ruffle the long fur on the dog's neck, "it's
still the prettiest sight in the world."
To Buck, fields were nothing
more than good places to nose out mice, so his bright eyes and lolling
tongue likely meant he wanted his food bowl filled. Or that Rik would play
a game of fetch on the way to the barn.
"Maybe later, boy," he said.
Buck replied with an excited, snuffling bark.
Sitting back again, Rik breathed
in deeply, taking in the familiar scent of sweet hay on the morning breeze.
The breeze also carried with it a lowing from the barn, reminding him it
was nearly time to get off his butt and begin the morning's chore of milking
his herd of forty cattle. Once he finished there, he'd start repairs on
the garage roof, fix the radiator on the John Deere--they didn't make tractors
like they used to--and after a quick lunch he'd feed the Belgian horses
and give them their daily practice before he had to milk the cows again.
Just a day's work at Black
Hollow Farm.
For now, though, he enjoyed
the luxury of letting the minutes drift by as he nursed his coffee and
ate a tart Macintosh from one of his own trees, which he sliced with a
pocketknife.
Man, this was the life. No
time clock to beat, no one to tell him when to work or how. Farming wasn't
for guys who needed quick profits and instant results, or who didn't like
ruining their designer shirts with sweat, but the job sure had its moments.
Like now. Even when he was
an old, old man, he wanted to look across his land and feel the satisfaction
like this, warm and deep in his belly.
As his father always used
to say: You earn what's yours, and no man can ever take that away.
Not without a fight, anyway--and
if he smelled trouble on this dry, hot wind, he'd just work that much harder
to keep it away. He'd done it before.
Which brought to mind that
pesky writer, and her carrot-on-a-stick offer of money. He never should've
agreed to let her come. It didn't set right, not from the very start.
With sudden determination,
Rik straightened.
"Hell, we don't need her
money," he informed Buck, who cocked his ears forward. "And Magnussons
never beg."
The dog swished his soft
brush of a tail against the porch. Then he rolled to his back, paws curled,
and whined, eyes begging.
Rik grinned, shaking his
head as he rubbed the dog's belly. "Except for Magnusson mutts, that is."
Patting the dog a last time,
Rik glanced again at the sky, where the gray had given way to blue. His
eye tagged the time close to six. Time to get to work.
But he had a telephone call
to make first, and set everything aright once more.
###
God, what a life.
Smothering a yawn at the
early hour, Annie Beckett picked her way through the cases and trunks scattered
across her living room floor.
She hadn't bothered to unpack
after flying in from Santa Fe yesterday, since she had to head right back
to Columbus International tomorrow morning. Half the cases lay open, awaiting
a pretrip equipment check--a tedious chore, but no way would she ever find
herself ready to snap the photograph of the century, only to discover a
lens was scratched or her batteries had died.
In the small island kitchen,
Annie
put water on to boil, then pulled a mug from the cupboard. She tore open
a Constant Comment tea packet, filling the room with the pungent scent
of orange and cinnamon.
Yawning again, she quickly
sorted through a mound of mail lying jumbled on the counter. The usual
bills, which she'd pay in advance by several months and post before hitting
the road; a few letters which she separated from the pile so she could
write back while at the airport or in-flight; and the letters from her
Wisconsin farmer, scrawled on notepaper from Dow's Feed and Seed.
Rurik Magnusson.
What a name for some guy
who probably wore dirty overalls, sported a farmer's tan and chewed tobacco;
a contrary old coot who, as his blunt notes told her, lived alone and zealously
guarded his solitude and comfortable routines.
While waiting for the water
to boil, she took the mail with her into the living room and sat cross-legged
on the floor next to her desk. She pulled a leather attaché toward
her, placed the mail in the front compartment, then opened her file cabinet
drawer and began packing her files on the Hudson project.
With any luck, this would
be the last time she'd ever have to pack those files.
The irony of it all never
failed to touch her, that while searching for her mother and her own past,
she'd found Lieutenant Lewis Hudson instead.
Lewis was actually family:
a tie of blood existed between them, and Annie's admiration for Gussie
Hudson's tireless thirty-year search for her lost son had bound that tie
into a knot.
Such a shame that her own
mother hadn't inherited even a smidgen of her ancestress's maternal instincts.
Just as the teakettle whistled,
the phone rang. Annie looked at her watch in disbelief. Anybody calling
this early was either a wrong number or someone she didn't want to talk
to.
She headed to the kitchen,
letting the answering machine take the call. As she turned off the stove,
a deep, unfamiliar male voice filled the small room.
"Yeah, Miz Beckett, this
is Rik Magnusson at Black Hollow Farm."
Annie froze, her fingers
tightening on the kettle's handle.
"I'm calling about your visit.
Something's come up, and I can't have you come by. Sorry for the short
notice and for any trouble this causes with your ticket. I'd, uh, be willing
to pay you for it, if you can't get a refund." The man hesitated, then
added with finality, "Good-bye."
The tape beeped and began
rewinding as Annie swore softly and slammed the kettle back down on the
stove.
The wishy-washy worm! After
all her efforts to appease him, how dare he screw her over?
Well, she wouldn't let Magnusson stop her that easily.
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?"
April 6, 1832, Jefferson Barracks, St. Louis: 'It is Politics, this War. It is about Profit, and Power. A man Wants, and thus the end shall justify the means. Old Hickory may Want all he wishes. He may Want the lead mines. He may Want the Sac subdued. But I Want a horse--chastising a mounted Enemy is difficult for even the most dedicated soldier if he shall lack a mount. Congress does not Want to pay the players, yet demands a performance. I am asked to deliver the Impossible, but I swore an Oath to serve my Country and I shall uphold that Oath.' -- Lieutenant Lewis Hudson, from a letter to his mother, Augustina
Rik stared at the bossy
bit standing in his kitchen, then turned and grabbed his keys off the counter,
ignoring the white envelope propped against his coffeemaker.
He stalked from the kitchen,
well aware he was acting like a jerk. Miz Annie Beckett hadn't really done
anything wrong, except upset his peace and quiet, leave him feeling like
a beggar and springing on him an unwelcome surprise.
Dammit, she was pretty; with
her dark, curling hair, exotic-looking eyes, straight eyebrows, and an
unexpectedly wide smile.
Needing a moment to reorder
his thoughts, Rik headed to the entryway. While he yanked on his dress
boots, the thump of thick-soled footsteps sounded on the floor behind him.
When the woman followed him outside to the porch, Buck started barking,
and she yelped in alarm.
Rik glanced over his shoulder.
She stood with her back to the railing, leaning away from the dog, a position
which pulled the fabric of her blouse tight over a right nice pair of breasts.
He looked away just as she turned to him, eyes wide with alarm.
"Buck, down," he ordered
in a warning tone, and the dog flopped down, laid his nose on crossed paws,
and heaved a gusty sigh, as if saying: You never let me have any fun!
Rik walked down the porch
steps toward the detached garage, where his white dually pickup and horse
trailers were parked, leaving the woman to follow.
Nope, not at all what he'd
expected. Her letters said she'd been working on her project for "years,"
so he'd pictured her older and stern-looking. Sweet young things like her
should be at home giving promising smiles to a husband and tucking little
kids into bed, not roaming alone around the countryside and accepting rides
from strange men.
The air inside the garage
smelled musty, thick with the scents of old gasoline and oil, and as a
sudden heat prickled his skin, Rik pulled at his shirt. He climbed into
the truck and barely waited until she'd done the same before cranking the
ignition. The pickup started with the roar of a well-maintained engine,
and he backed out of the garage.
When he took off in a spin
of gravel, she grabbed for the door handle. "I'm not in any hurry."
"I am. The sooner I get you
to the Hollow, the sooner I can get back to work."
He sped along the narrow
road and around a corner, barely touching the brakes, and her knuckles
whitened. "Relax, Miz Beckett. I've been driving these roads for years,
you know."
"And you can still die on
these roads, you know. Slow down!"
"No point. We're here." Rik
took a sharp left onto a deeply rutted dirt road, then brought the truck
to a swaying halt before a locked metal gate with a NO TRESPASSING sign
sporting an editorial bullet hole smack in the middle of the O.
"It's as far as I drive.
We'll walk the rest of the way."
She gazed ahead at the grassy
field leading to a wooded, rocky patch of land that, in Rik's opinion,
wasn't much to get excited about. Then she climbed out of the truck and
walked ahead. In the sunlight her hair shone like polished mahogany, and
the creases of her skirt skimmed the curves of her bottom.
After a moment Rik followed
her, wishing he'd brought along another soda. Man, it was hot.
"Has the land here ever been
farmed or homesteaded?"
"Nope."
"So these hills, all bristling
with pine, maple, and oak, are as untouched as when he was here."
She talked like a bad movie--and
who the hell was "he"?
"The Hollow's still up a
bit. Go on."
Inside the woods, the light
faded, and the heavy heat eased. The place smelled dank and earthy, reminding
him of hazy, long-ago summer days spent at the Hollow, hiding with his
brothers as they ogled Playboy magazines and guzzled Grandpa Ed's
homemade root beer.
Without warning, Annie Beckett
stopped and bent to look at the ground and Rik almost tripped over her.
"What are these leafy plants
called?" she asked.
"Trillium. Earlier in the
summer they have white flowers," he answered, scowling at the shapely bottom
thrust up toward him.
"Must be pretty." She looked
over her shoulder, and her mouth tightened to a straight line as she realized
what he'd been staring at.
Tough. The woman had a nice
ass, and if she was going to point it at him like that, he was going to
look.
A twig snapped behind them,
and she jerked upright, unease replacing her look of annoyance. "What was
that?"
"Don't worry. The only wild
animals around here are the Nelson boys down the road." Rik rubbed his
palm over his jaw, eyeing her. "But you can probably handle them just fine,
being so used to men and all."
She looked at him as if he'd
spoken in a foreign language, then made a noise of disgust. "When you're
not being obnoxious on purpose, are you sort of a nice guy? Or do I just
bring out all your sterling qualities at once?"
"Obnoxious? What do you expect?
I said you can work here, but I'm not gonna pretend to be happy about it.
And you might think about being a little nicer to the guy who owns the
private property you're standing on."
"Oh, no. Don't you go there,"
she retorted, her cheeks bright red. "You've got a pretty nice butt yourself,
but I'm not kissing it."
A reluctant smile tugged
at Rik's mouth at that little zinger. She stared at him as if waiting
for something, then shook her head and marched away, hips swishing from
side to side with each forceful step.
He watched her and her swishes
for a moment longer. "Hey, hold up--where you going? This here's Black
Hawk's Hollow, Miz Beckett."
"Please." She stopped and
looked back over her shoulder. "Do my ears a favor and call me Annie."
Closing a hand over the camera
hanging around her neck, she slowly walked around. As far as Rik could
tell, no rock or leaf bud or sapling went unexamined--or untouched.
She stopped, aimed the camera
at the trillium, and clicked a shot with a satisfied smile.
Rik watched her, frowning.
Even if he didn't want her around getting in his way, he had bailed
out on her at the last minute. It wouldn't hurt to give her a chance.
"So it really is a hollow."
Her words broke across his thoughts. "A wooded coulee nestled within the
embrace of a jagged outcropping of brownish red rock and carpeted with
brown leaves and green, spade-shaped trillium."
She talked like she was dictating
to a tape or reading from an encyclopedia, and eyed the Hollow in the same
way she'd stared at him earlier, camera in hand, as if he were a bowl of
fruit to arrange and photograph.
Weird chick.
"What kind of rock formation
is this?"
"Beats me. I'm a farmer,
not a geologist."
She sent him a cool look,
then ran her hands over the rock. Her fingers were long, with short, unpainted
nails, and she traced the grooves and cracks, touching its dips and rises
as if it were a lover's body.
Enough of that! He'd better
get back to work, instead of standing there like a fool checking out some
strange woman who was likely to be nothing but a pain in the butt for the
next few weeks.
But he bet her fingers would
be soft and strong, and she'd be one bossy handful in bed.
"Hard...smooth," she said,
oblivious to his thoughts. "Can't be sandstone. This isn't a glacial region,
is it?"
Glacial would be good, right
about now. He pulled at his damp his shirt again. "Glaciers didn't get
this far south."
"Any caves around here?"
"Some. Not on the Hollow,
though, if that's what you mean."
"How about lead mines?"
"You know your stuff," he
said, impressed. "Most of the lead mines were south of here, at places
like Mineral Point and Galena. What are you getting at? You're not digging
holes or anything, are you?"
"I'm just asking questions,"
she said quickly. "Right now, I'm doing a history of the area and gathering
details. If old Chief Black Hawk was hiding behind a tree, people want
to know if it was a burr oak or a red pine. When you're re-creating worlds,
you need to get the details right."
"I told you Black Hawk and
his band didn't stop here."
"But the army did."
"According to the family
stories, yeah. Fire circles from the camp were still around when old Ole
built the first house."
"Ole?"
"The first Magnusson here.
He bought the land in 1844, years after the war."
"Your family's lived here
for over a hundred and fifty years?" When he nodded, she whistled and said,
"Wow. Impressive."
The bright interest in her
eyes made him uncomfortable. He took a step back. "I've got work to do."
"Then go on. I'd like to
stay and take a few shots. I'll head back on my own."
Rik eyed her skirt and earth-mama
sandals. "It's a long walk."
She arched a brow. "I'm used
to walking, and I'm not the helpless, fragile sort."
No kidding. She'd already
moved away from him, camera in hand, when he said, "You got a watch on?"
"Of course!"
"Good. I'll be back in an
hour to pick you up."
"You don't --"
"Just be ready in an hour.
The sun will be setting by then, and the woods get dark pretty fast. I
don't like the idea of you out here alone." She'd probably fall off the
bluff or something, then sue him. As Rik backed away, he called, "And you
better watch out for the Wailing Woman."
She turned sharply. The tower
of rock behind her blocked out the sun, wrapping her in shadows so that
he couldn't clearly see her face. "Wailing Woman?"
"Our local ghost."
Her smile flashed bright
and wide. "A ghost! That's exactly the sort of detail I'm looking for.
Have you seen it?"
Rik stopped. Full of surprises,
this Annie Beckett. "Nope. But some of my family have, and my old man saw
her once."
"Can I pick your brains later
about the family stories?"
"Do you believe in ghosts?"
"No, I don't, but that's
not what I asked you."
Rik laughed. "You sure can
try, Miz Beckett."
"Annie!"
"Okay--Annie. Now I've got
a question for you. What's this about, anyway? What are you looking for?"
"As I told you in my letters,
I'm following the journey of an infantry officer who disappeared in 1832."
"You didn't say anything
about the disappearing part," Rik said.
She blinked. "Only because
it was too complicated to go into in a few letters."
Sounded cagey to him. "So
who was he? Somebody important?"
Annie hesitated, then said,
"No."
Puzzled, he asked, "It's
not going to change history or anything?"
"No." Her voice had gone
cool again. "My angle on this project is that it's a unique human interest
story."
"Sounds like a lot of trouble
for nothing."
"Depends on what you call
nothing. Lieutenant Lewis Hudson was an only son. His mother doted upon
him, his father wanted him to go into politics, and his four younger sisters
adored him. He was crazy in love with a girl named Emily, whose father
didn't want her to marry a frontier army officer."
With each quiet word, she'd
walked closer. The breeze fluttered her flowery skirt and ruffled strands
of dark hair that had escaped her braid--but those warm, woodsy brown eyes
had turned hard and sharp, startling him into silence.
"He came from an Ohio family
who'd made their fortune in mining iron ore, then went to West Point and
graduated in the top ten of his class. He was only twenty-two when the
army claimed he deserted. I don't believe that, any more than I believe
a man's life is 'nothing.'"
"No need to get mad," Rik
said, turning away, suddenly impatient to get back to work. "I figure I've
got a right to know what you're up to. Just go on and do your thing and
leave me alone to do mine. That's all I ask."
###
Annie watched Magnusson trot
down to his truck, negotiating rocks, branches, and ruts with an easy grace.
Too bad. She wanted to see him fall flat on his red-necked, bad-tempered
butt.
Nothing was going as she'd
anticipated. And the nerve of that man, insinuating she'd better kiss up
because he had something she wanted!
With a sigh of frustration,
she sat on the ground, cool and giving beneath her, and leaned back against
the rough rock of the Hollow.
What on earth was the key
to this man's cooperation?
Only money came to mind,
though he didn't appear hard up for cash. Still, he'd avoided touching
the check she'd held out to him, and when she'd written to him, it had
all been no, no, no--right up until she offered money.
Of course he must need money;
everybody needed money at some time, for one thing or another.
The easiest, most convenient
way to handle this would be to board with Magnusson--an option she'd resorted
to often enough in the past--and offer him a weekly rental fee too attractive
to refuse. It'd tip the scales of control back in her direction, if only
a little, and give him a reason to be magnanimous.
Annie peered through the
canopy of tree branches toward the sky. Okay. So her plan was a bit underhanded.
But he wasn't playing nice, either, and it wasn't as if boarding with him
would be a breeze. He was uncouth, and he didn't appear to like her much,
even if she had caught him eyeing her bottom.
"Lewis, Lewis," she said,
rubbing her brows. "You better be here. If you really did desert and run
off with some Indian cutie, I'll be pretty ticked off."
As the last echo of her voice
died away, smothered in the silence of the woods, a sudden chill stole
over her. She glanced at the dense brush and brittle spread of brown leaves,
at massive old trees and the dried, rotting hulks of dead ones...but saw
nothing worrisome. No wisps of wailing specters anywhere.
The light was fading, that
was all. Annie rubbed briskly at her prickly goose bumps, then stood. Time
to get to work.
First she roved around to
get a feel for the area: up and down the bluff, then along sloping fields
and a patch of grassy prairie that lay outside the woods. She followed
the progress of a shallow creek as it gurgled around rocks and through
the tangled, exposed roots of trees. Lastly, she climbed the rocky incline
of the Hollow again, surveying the land as far as the eye could see.
So quietly beautiful--these
checkerboard fields colored in green and gold and black earth, the pockets
of woods tucked into seams between fields and rolling hills, all cross-hatched
by country roads and winding, nourishing veins of streams. She glimpsed
other farmhouses, other barns flanked by tall silos, and tiny dots of cattle
in the pastures. Cows and more cows, as if Holsteins outnumbered humans
in this part of Wisconsin. America's Dairy Land was living up to its reputation.
But no traces of war remained.
Whatever pain and suffering had occurred here in 1832, it had left no mark.
Almost no mark, anyway.
The cost of war touched
me but a little, for long ago my innocence died at that place they now
call Black Hawk's Hollow.
The truth she'd come for
was here: she could feel it in her bones.
Annie wondered what the Hollow
had looked like when Lewis was here. Hilly, of course, with acres upon
acres of trees and valleys, and seas of tall grasses and wildflowers undulating
like waves in the breeze. Wild, and untouched.
In her mind, she heard words--words
in faded ink on brittle paper, memorized long ago--and as always, she 'heard'
these in a young man's deep, pleasant voice: I have tried to preserve
a bloom. I know not what it is called, but its blue color reminds me of
your eyes. When I see these flowers, I think of you and such thoughts,
Dearest Emily, help me keep faith during these tedious days and nights.
I am pleased your father warms to the idea of our marriage, but of course
he is right to be so concerned. It is no life for a delicate soul.
The long-ago "bloom" Lewis
had sent to his sweetheart, Emily Oglethorpe, had been a bright blue chicory
flower.
It grew in fields or along
ditches, so Annie made her way toward the road. Before long, she spotted
several chicory plants growing beside a thicket of frothy Queen Anne's
lace.
Camera in hand, she walked
around the flowers, taking in details and angles, colors and textures.
The sky, under a setting sun, had faded to a delicate pinkish purple.
Satisfied with the light,
she got down on her belly in the dirt, twisting her body to the angle she
needed for the perfect picture of a wild chicory's periwinkle flower, its
simple little face tipped toward the fading sun.
To be safe, she snapped another
six shots from several other angles, then stood and brushed dust and grass
from her skirt and blouse. Almost absently, she plucked a blossom in memory
of the blue-eyed sweetheart who'd never married her dashing young officer
or subjected her delicate soul to a life on the frontier.
Annie tucked the flower into
her hair, then glanced at her watch. Almost time to go. She turned toward
the road and in the distance spotted a white truck cresting a hill.
She perched on the gate,
watching as Magnusson turned off the road and drove toward her, bouncing
along the uneven ground. He parked, leaving the engine idling.
"Hey," he called as he opened
the door and jumped to the ground, sending up puffs of dust beneath his
boots. "Let's go."
Annie slipped down from the
fence. "Thanks for picking me up. You really didn't have to, but I appreciate
it."
He tipped his head to one
side, frowning a little, and Annie noticed his shirt was the exact same
blue color of a chicory blossom. "You got a weed in your hair."
She sighed, and said, "It's
a pretty flower."
Without waiting for a response,
Annie climbed up into the truck. After a moment Magnusson slid into his
seat, put the truck in gear, and sent them lurching slowly toward the road.
Although he didn't speak,
she was still aware of his solid male presence beside her, and scooted
closer to the door. Several long seconds passed before she risked a quick,
discreet peek at him. Her gaze settled on his hands; on long fingers with
half-moons of dirt beneath the nails and reddish hair on his forearms and
hands that almost glowed in the golden light.
She eyed her dusty legs and
dirt-smudged skirt, the blouse glued to her skin again by perspiration--and
she wore a weed in her hair, as he'd so kindly pointed out.
Oh, well. Getting ravished
by Vikings wasn't on her agenda, anyway. "Mr. Magnusson?"
"Call me Rik. It's shorter."
"You live alone, don't you?"
He hesitated, then said,
"Mostly."
Not the answer she'd hoped
for, but close enough. "I bet you put in some long days working your farm,
which leaves that big house empty most of the time."
The tips of his mustache
turned down. "Get to the point."
"I have a proposition for
you."
His gaze lingered on her
mouth before moving to a point below her face, then back to the road. "No
offense, but I'm not interested."
The air inside the truck
had grown hot and tense, and her skin flushed with anger--his intent, no
doubt. Annie counted to five before saying calmly, "I'd like to pay you
to rent a room at your place."
"Forget it."
"I'm offering because it'll
save me a lot of travel time between my hotel and the Hollow." And the
Black Hawk Inn was expensive, so moving on-site would save her money, too.
When he still said nothing, she added dryly, "That means the sooner I finish
my work, the sooner you can get rid of me."
Another moment's hesitation.
Then, "No."
"Two hundred fifty dollars
a week. That's some easy money, Mr. Magnusson...Rik. What do you say to
that?"
He didn't answer and remained
quiet for so long that Annie feared she'd misread him. Maybe money wasn't
the key to this man's cooperation, after all.
When he halted the truck
at a stop sign at the top of a hill, he turned toward her. "Do you always
offer to move in with strange men, Miz Beckett?
"If it's necessary, yes.
My work takes me all over the country, often where there are no hotels
or bed-and-breakfasts." He continued to stare at her, and she added, "I'm
used to living with strangers. And my instincts about people are quite
good."
His brows shot upward. "Yeah?
And what do your instincts tell you about me?"
"That you're a decent guy,
and can be trusted to do the right thing." God, she hoped so, anyway.
"Anything else?"
"You don't like me very much."
"I don't like surprises,"
he said after a moment.
Trying not to sound desperate,
she asked, "But will you at least think about it?"
He put the truck back in
gear and turned the corner. Several nerve-wracking moments passed before
he glanced her way, and said, "Yeah."