He wondered if he’d ever be warm again—and if Libby would survive. His gut twisted, and he glanced at her. She was breathing easily, her dark lashes curved against her cheek, her chest moving with each breath. She’d make it, and sure as he was sitting here, she’d be furious with him when she discovered she was naked as the day she was born.
Smiling a little, he stretched closer to the fire. His mind wandered back in time to the summer when he’d first met Libby Bevans, daughter of the minister of the single church in Cascade, Oregon. She’d been living in Portland, going to college, and she’d come home to care for her dying mother.
Brett had seen her in town a couple of times, which was no surprise, because Cascade was so small it was hard not to notice a new face. And what a face it was. High cheekbones, easy smile, blue eyes that sparkled when she talked. Her hair had been longer then, nearly to her waist, thick and black and wavy. She’d been like no other woman he’d ever met.
He’d always prided himself on being a loner, a man who needed no one, a person who enjoyed his solitary life in the mountains, and, though attracted to the opposite sex, he’d avoided any kind of emotional entanglement. His father was long dead, and his mother had remarried and was living her life in Seattle, loving the hustle and craziness of the city. Brett saw her only a couple of times a year, and that suited them both just fine.
He’d seen no reason to change his uncomplicated life-style. Until he’d met Libby. Then his entire world had turned upside down.
Leaning up on one elbow, he looked at her. So peaceful. So beautiful. Gently he touched a finger to her cheek and felt the warmth of her skin. She’d be okay. She was going to make it. Thank God. His throat closed in on itself when he thought of just how close he’d come to losing her. This time forever. His eyes burned, and his hand was suddenly unsteady.
Just nerves, he told himself. A normal reaction. Or was it? Just because she still haunted his dreams, that didn’t mean that he wasn’t over her. The fact that he’d thought of her nearly every day since she’d left him didn’t mean that he still loved her. Sure, he cared about her, but when they’d broken up, it had been for good.
He’d been her first love; she’d been his last.
Scowling at the turn his thoughts had taken, he settled back on the floor again and wondered what would happen once she awoke. And why the devil was she back here? When she’d left, she’d vowed never to return, and she hadn’t given a damn about breaking her old man’s heart—or his own.
A little finger of guilt pierced his mind. He knew, deep inside, that he’d driven her away. But it was easier to blame Libby, to convince himself that she was a conniving, malicious woman who had used him, a woman who had no depth of conviction.
But he’d lied to himself. As he thought of the past, remembered how much they’d meant to each other, he realized that he was the reason she’d run away from everything she ever loved.
He squeezed his eyes shut tight, hoping to sleep, but rest was elusive. Thoughts of Libby and that fateful summer kept him awake long into the night….
CHAPTER THREE
It was hot, late July, and Brett had driven into town for the Saturday breakfast special at the Derringer Café: a short stack of pancakes, a side of bacon, two fried eggs, and all the coffee he could drink.
He’d left a healthy tip for Velma, the redheaded waitress who always flirted with him, then sauntered outside and into the morning sunshine. Heat was already rising from the pavement, causing the asphalt to shimmer as he opened the door of his pickup. He spied her in the rearview mirror; a small, authoritative woman herding a group of kids onto the local church camp’s joy bus.
One of the kids wasn’t too keen on climbing aboard.
Brett turned and, shifting a toothpick to one corner of his mouth, watched the showdown.
“I hate camp!” the kid yelled belligerently, his chubby arms crossed in front of his chest. A freckle-faced boy of about ten, he smirked up at the woman. “I’m not going!”
Brett glanced at the parking lot, but no set of parents stepped forward to set the little brat straight. In fact, it seemed that the lithe young woman was solely in charge of about twenty kids ranging in age from seven to fifteen.
Amused, Brett lounged against the side of the café and openly watched the young woman square off with her wayward charge.
“Get on the bus, Sean,” she said with a sweet but determined smile.
“No way.”
Her blue eyes snapped suddenly, and she looked up to see an older boy with short blond hair and a slight case of sunburn. “Kevin, will you help Sean onto the bus? You can be his big brother. He’s a little nervous this morning.”
“Sure, Miss Libby, I—”
Libby? As in the preacher’s daughter? Brett had never met Libby Bevans, but he knew from his acquaintance with her father that as the only daughter of Edwin and Marla Bevans, Libby was adored by both her parents.
“I don’t want no sissy for a big brother!” Sean insisted, his eyes, behind round glasses, dancing with glee.
Miss Libby’s smile was suddenly strained. “Then get on the bus by yourself.”
“Make me.”
“Sean, I don’t want to have to embarrass you. Just get on the bus by the time I count to three.”
By this time, the whole lot of children, those already boarded and hanging out the windows, a few climbing up the steps of the brightly painted bus, and another couple of stragglers who were gathering their packs and bags from the sidewalk, were staring at the confrontation. Miss Libby was either going to make her point, or she was going to lose the respect of the whole group of kids.
“One,” she said.
Grinning, Sean didn’t budge, just looked from side to side, hoping the rest of the kids were seeing how tough he was.
“Two,” she said, a little louder. “Better start moving.”
Sean stuck out his tongue.
It was all Brett could take. He moved as swiftly as a hungry cougar into the midst of the group. “I don’t think you heard the lady,” he growled, hoping he looked as fierce as a mountain lion.
“Wh—who are you?” Sean stammered. His eyes, behind his thick lenses, had gone round with fear.
“Yeah, who do you think you are?” Libby demanded, concern evident on her face.
Brett slid her a glance before turning his eyes on Sean. “Think of me as a messenger of God.”
“A what?” she said on a gasp.
Brett’s gaze never left Sean’s surprised face. “That’s right, and he says you’d better haul your backside into the joy bus before you come across serious trouble.”
“You can’t do nothin’ to me, mister,” Sean said, still full of bravado, though his voice was beginning to tremble.
“You’re right. It’s not me you have to worry about.” He cast a meaningful look at the sky, then watched with amusement as Sean hightailed it onto the bus.
Libby whirled on him. “You had no right!” she whispered.
“I know. But it worked.”
“I was doing fine—”
“The kid was working you. And you painted yourself into a corner with that counting routine.”
“It’s a good way—”
“To make a fool of yourself.” He saw the fire snap in her eyes, and he gave her a totally uncivilized smile. Didn’t she understand that he’d done her a favor? The preacher’s daughter was beautiful, all right, but an impertinent snip. “You can’t treat a ten-year-old like he’s three. It won’t work.”
“What makes you such an authority? Do you have a dozen kids, or something?”
“Or something.” He shook his head. “I was ten once.”
“So was I!”
“But I was a wiseass. Any woman tried to cow me into crawling onto the bus by counting would have seriously regretted it.”
It seemed as if she suddenly believed him. Agreement registered in her eyes, and she blew her dark bangs off her forehead in a rush of exasperation. She bit down on t
he corner of her lower lip, which was nearly thrust outward in a pout, and Brett had the unlikely urge to kiss her—to take that soft lower lip and press his own to it. He wondered how she would react to such he-man tactics, and decided he would probably be rewarded with a swift kick.
She sighed and shook her head, her black hair shimmering blue in the morning light. “Okay, so your heavy-handed approach worked better than my cajoling. I guess I should thank you, Mr.—?”
“Brett Matson,” he supplied. “And you’re Miss Libby.”
“Ms. Bevans.”
“Edwin’s daughter.”
Her back stiffened a bit. “That’s right, and you can only call me Miss Libby if you sign up at the church and spend a week at the camp.”
A smile stretched across his chin. “That could be arranged,” he heard himself say. He wondered why he felt obliged to banter with this small woman. As it was, he would probably see more of her this summer than he should.
“Good. Take it up with God, since you’re on such a buddy-buddy basis with him. And in the future, Mr. Matson, please, keep your nose in your own business.”
“Even if the good Lord sends me a message?” he said, unable to stop baiting her. The woman rankled him, pure and simple.
“Especially then!” She whirled on her heel and headed back to the bus. He was left standing on the sidewalk, sweat collecting on the back of his neck as he watched her climb into the bus and take the driver’s seat. In a cloud of diesel smoke, the old vehicle rumbled away from the curb and out of town, toward Pine Mountain, and the church camp that sprawled along the shore of White Elk Creek.
“I’ll be damned,” he said, sliding a glance to the heavens and figuring his remark wouldn’t go unnoticed. He’d known that Ed had a grown daughter who was living in Portland and going to school. He’d heard through the trusty town grapevine that she was coming back to Cascade to help her ailing mother, but what he hadn’t counted on—not in a million years—was that she would be the most interesting woman west of the Rockies. “I’ll be damned,” he repeated, knowing he already was.
Libby couldn’t believe the gall of the man. To act as if he had some sort of personal communication with God! It was blasphemy, and if her father ever heard the tale, there was sure to be a sermon filled with fire and brimstone on Sunday. She couldn’t help but grin, however, because as angry as she was with Matson, she had to admit that his scare tactics seemed to have worked where her own calmer methods of handling a wayward child had failed. Sean Duvall had settled in to become a model camper.
“Live and learn,” she told herself as the bus rumbled across the old bridge and rolled into the campground. The kids were already singing songs, lead by Irene Brennan and her daughter, Sandy, a fun-loving tomboy who had graduated from high school with Libby. Mrs. Brennan was the organist at the church in town, and both she and Sandy had agreed to help with the camp, as Libby’s mother, who was usually the cook, maid and general mom-to-all-campers, was ill. Seriously ill.
A sudden and bitter cold settled in Libby’s heart. As an only child, she’d grown up close to both her mother and father, and she couldn’t believe that God, her father’s loving God, would see fit to take Marla away from them. A shadow covered her soul, and her throat grew tight as she thought of her mother battling melanoma. The prognosis wasn’t good, but Libby hoped that with the right medical care, a lot of love, and her father’s constant prayers, her mother would pull through. She had to.
Easing up on the throttle, Libby slowed the bus near the stables. The kids were shouting and laughing, antsy to start camp. She cranked open the doors, and they streamed out, carrying packs, bags, bedrolls and pillows as they scrambled to the six different cabins nestled in the trees and checked the rosters for their names.
The day would be hectic, she knew. She would help her father settle the campers into their respective bunks, deal with any problems, double-check the supplies, as well as the livestock, make sure she wasn’t needed in the kitchen, then drive her car back to town to spend the night with her mother before rising at dawn and returning.
She didn’t really mind. In the few years she’d been away since graduating from high school, she’d missed her summers here in the forest, where she’d been a camp counselor from the time she was fifteen.
It was nearly dinnertime when she saw him again. Through the open window of the craft cabin, she looked across the creek and watched as an unfamiliar pickup pulling a horse trailer parked in the clearing on the far side of the bridge.
Libby’s breath stopped for a second as Matson stretched out of the cab. He was a handsome man, she knew, though she was loath to admit as much. With long legs, broad shoulders and a whip-lean body, he looked mountain-tough. Wearing faded jeans, a matching jacket and a flannel shirt, he fitted the image of an outdoorsman. His hair, brown streaked with blond, was a little longer than was fashionable, and curled over the edge of his denim collar. His face was all sharp angles, and tanned from hours in the sun. Thin lips cut across a square jaw. He looked as if he could be laughing one instant and hostile the next—a powder keg with whiskey-brown eyes.
He opened the back of the horse trailer, and Libby forgot she was supposed to be showing the children how to mix paint as the Native Americans had a century before. Burnt umber dripped from her handmade brush as she watched Matson lead a huge gelding and a stocky mare into camp.
Trailing after the mare on a separate lead was a spindly-legged foal with huge brown eyes, a fluff of a tail and a crooked blaze running down its sorrel face.
“Look!” Tammy Lewis cried, her nose crinkling in delight. “A baby horse!”
“That’s a colt, stupid!” Sean told her, leading the stampede outside. However, once he caught a glimpse of Brett, Sean hung back, while other, more anxious campers reached out to touch a velvet-soft nose.
“I wouldn’t touch the filly,” Brett advised the kids, “unless you want her mama to show you who’s boss.”
“A filly?” Tammy said, sending Sean a meaningful glance. “I thought it was a colt.”
Brett laughed and cast a wicked look Libby’s way. “I’d be careful if I were you,” he said to the group. “Some females take their womanhood to heart, and they can be downright nasty if they are mistaken for a man. You sure don’t want to get them riled, or insult them, or—”
“Or usurp their authority.” Libby felt her cheeks burning as she took control of the conversation. Who did this guy think he was to come waltzing into the camp and start making fun of her?
“Brett!” Her father’s voice boomed through the trees. Libby turned to find Edwin running down the few steps of the chapel, a smile on his face and his hand extended. “Thanks for lending us the stock.”
“My pleasure.” The two men shook hands warmly, and Libby’s mouth nearly dropped open.
Her father adjusted his clerical collar and told the campers that, due to Mr. Matson’s generosity, they were able to have trail rides. Mr. Matson not only was a forest ranger, but also owned several head of livestock—draft horses—that were gentle enough to ride. Matson himself would give some lessons. Libby’s heart sank when she realized that she would probably be bumping into him more often than not.
Truth to tell, she didn’t like him. He was entirely too cynical. Too good-looking. Too cocky and too sexy for his own good.
As if reading her thoughts, he flashed a devilish smile in her direction, and her heart did a peculiar little flip. “Great,” she muttered to herself as she herded a few of the campers back to the craft shed and tried to keep her attention away from the window and her view of the paddock. On the other side of the split-rail fence, Brett was showing some of the children how to mount a horse and hold on to the reins. Libby’s concentration continually strayed away from the five rudimentary paintings of Native American scenes and to the roguish man whose amber eyes seemed to see straight through to her soul.
Brett stayed for dinner, and sat directly across the table from Libby. She had trouble swallowing Mr
s. Brennan’s chicken and dumplings with his gaze flicking from her to her father more often than she would have liked.
He was disturbing and sensual and seemed to be laughing at her. His eyes glinted with amusement more often than not, and though he was a perfect gentleman while passing around the plates of creamed chicken, fluffy dumplings, corn on the cob and green beans, she felt his civility was all an act.
She hadn’t learned much about him, just that he was some sort of mountain man, a forest ranger who lived at the “station” at the timberline on Pine Mountain and raised horses—incredibly big horses—as a hobby. He seemed a part of this wilderness. He had come from another station, in southern Oregon, about the same time she’d left Cascade for Portland. Her father intimated that Brett was a loner, but “a good, decent enough man, though I would like to see him in church on Sundays.” The two men had met because of the livestock, held a distant respect for each other, and, though worlds apart, saw each other either because of the horses or because Cascade was a town of less than a thousand citizens. Everybody knew everybody.
“I’ll pack a plate for your ma,” Mrs. Brennan was saying as she and a designated group of helpers started clearing the table.
“She’d like that.” Libby was grateful for the conversation, because it meant she wouldn’t have to dwell on Brett and his uncomfortable scrutiny.
“And I’ll send along a berry pie—she can share it with some of the people who visit her during the day when we’re all up here.”
“That would be great.”
“Isn’t Sean on KP duty tonight?” Brett asked her.
“Mmm…”
“Looks like he’s trying to ditch.”
Sure enough, Sean had slipped off his bench and was trying to sneak out the dining-hall door. Brett leaned back in his chair and motioned toward the head table. “Why don’t you start over here?” he asked the boy. “I’m finished, and it looks like Miss Libby is, too.”