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  “Soon,” she promised.

  “If I ever need an attorney,” he said brightly, “I’ll know who to call.”

  Of all the things he might’ve said, this affected her the most. She bit her trembling lip in an effort to stall the emotion that burned just beneath the surface.

  “Hey, what’d I say?”

  “Nothing.” Laughing a little, she shook her head. “You’re one heck of a man, Duke Porter. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m going to miss you like crazy.” Her heart hammered with the pain of the coming separation.

  “I never thought I’d miss you, either.” His face was pinched, his eyes shadowed. This time she knew it wasn’t due to his injuries. Parting was as difficult for him as it was for her. But Tracy sensed that he wasn’t keen on her knowing it, so she pretended not to notice.

  “Take my advice,” Duke said, “and ditch Gavin. You deserve a real man.”

  Unfortunately the only one who fell into that category was here in front of her—and he was sending her away. “I’d already decided that.”

  His gaze held hers, then he asked, “A kiss for luck?”

  She smiled and nodded. He held his good arm out to her, and she came into his embrace. She assumed he only meant to hug her, perhaps give her a peck on the cheek.

  But Duke gathered her close and directed her lips to his. The kiss was like the man. He held back nothing, twining his fingers into her hair, slanting his mouth over hers in a breath-stealing kiss. Her breath jammed in her lungs as her fingers dug into his shoulders.

  She tasted his urgency, his hunger, experienced them herself. He wanted her and made no apologies.

  The kiss might have gone on even longer if not for a noise in the hallway outside the partially closed door.

  Duke released her with a reluctance that should have thrilled her, but didn’t. With little more than a kiss, he was sending her out of his life.

  “Goodbye, Tracy. Godspeed.”

  “Godspeed,” she returned in a choked whisper. And then, while she could still hold back the tears, she walked hurriedly out of the room—and out of his life.

  * * *

  Ben had his excuses neatly lined up in his mind. He’d meet Mrs. McMurphy and they’d exchange pleasantries. Next, he’d read over her résumé and ask half a dozen appropriate questions. Enough for her to believe he was giving her serious consideration. When the interview was over, he’d announce that he needed a couple of days to decide and would get back to her by the end of the week.

  That was the way situations like this were handled. Ben possessed enough business savvy to know how to give a job applicant the brush-off.

  He’d make sure Mrs. McMurphy and Bethany didn’t know what he had up his sleeve. That would be a mistake. Instead, he’d play along, let both women assume he was satisfied with the interview. Then he’d sit down and have dinner with Bethany and her family. Socialize with Mrs. McMurphy.

  Ben would lay odds that Bethany wasn’t serving any tofu burgers this evening. Not with company. He was dreaming of Southern fried chicken, potatoes mashed with real butter, and sour-cream gravy. Dreaming—that was all he’d be doing, knowing Bethany.

  Mrs. McMurphy was due any moment, so Ben slowly made his way downstairs. The café was empty and lifeless. He missed the old hustle and bustle. In the past, he’d sometimes gone an hour or two without a customer, but that was different. This kind of silence was downright eerie.

  The grill was stone cold, but if he closed his eyes, he could hear the hiss of bacon and hash-brown potatoes frying in the pan.

  Anticipating the woman’s arrival, Ben put on a small pot of decaffeinated coffee—Bethany would approve—and pulled out a chair. As he sipped from his mug, he watched the Baron aircraft land. Sawyer was back—with the infamous Mrs. McMurphy.

  Ben caught his first view of the cook and was surprised at how tall she was. She wore a long black wool coat and carried a wicker basket over her arm, like little Red Riding Hood come to visit the big bad wolf.

  Sawyer escorted her to the café personally, but stayed only long enough to check that Ben was downstairs.

  “So you’re Mrs. McMurphy,” Ben said after Sawyer left. “Ben Hamilton.” He extended his hand.

  “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance,” the tall slender woman said.

  Years earlier Ben had seen a plaque that said never to trust a skinny cook. He was inclined to accept that advice.

  “Come in and make yourself comfortable,” he urged, motioning to the table where he’d been sitting. “May I take your coat?”

  “Please.” She slipped out of it; she wore a practical denim dress and boots. She put the basket down on the table and sat quickly, almost as if she feared her height would alarm him. Ben was a big man himself, well over six feet. It took more than a reed-thin woman to intimidate him.

  “Could I get you a cup of coffee?” he asked, still playing politeness to the hilt.

  “No, thank you.”

  She was prim, a bit shy, with friendly blue eyes that seemed to take up half her face. Her dark, gray-streaked hair was gathered in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. It was difficult to guess her age; she could be anywhere between forty and sixty. Plain. No rings, he noted. No jewelry at all, for that matter.

  Ben pulled out his chair and sat down himself.

  “I’ve enclosed some letters of recommendation,” she said, retrieving an envelope from her purse. Her hand shook slightly.

  She was nervous, Ben realized, and found that puzzling. If he raised his voice, as he tended to do, he’d scare the poor thing out of ten years of her life.

  He peeled open the envelope and took out three single sheets of paper. It wasn’t until he started reading that he noticed the most enticing scent. A blend of apples and spices. It distracted him so much that he couldn’t finish the letters.

  He hesitated and glanced at the wicker basket. His mouth watered. What was it Bethany had told him about Mrs. McMurphy’s specialties? Oh, yeah—strudel and cinnamon rolls. Could it be possible...?

  His eyes were riveted on the basket.

  “I brought along an apple strudel,” Mrs. McMurphy said, following his gaze. “Mrs. Harris was kind enough to invite me for dinner this evening, and this is my way of thanking her.”

  “Did you bring anything else?” Bethany wouldn’t hesitate to drag him before a firing squad for asking.

  “Cinnamon rolls,” she said. “You’re welcome to look over my résumé, of course, but I felt my rolls would speak for themselves. The recipe was my grandmother’s.”

  “How thoughtful.” Ben all but leaped from the table. He hadn’t moved with this much agility for weeks.

  Before another minute had passed he’d grabbed a plate and fork. His eyes feasted on the dish Mrs. McMurphy took from the basket.

  Huge cinnamon rolls were piled high on the small platter. The frosting had melted over the top, just the way he liked.

  “Please, Mr. Hamilton, help yourself.”

  Ben didn’t need a second invitation. “I believe I’ll have a taste,” he said, as if he felt morally obligated to sample her wares since she’d gone to the trouble of bringing them.

  He placed the largest one on the plate and licked the sweetness from his fingertips. This was heaven. Forget all that nonsense about bran and tofu.

  Trying to disguise his absolute delight, he read over her résumé as he took the first bite.

  “As I explained earlier, the recipe was my grandmother’s. Although it’s more expensive, I use real butter.” She said this hesitantly, her eyes studying him.

  Butter. She used real butter.

  “I’ve tried margarine,” Mrs. McMurphy said with regret, “but the rolls don’t have the same richness or full-bodied flavor. If I come to work for you, Mr. Hamilton, I insist on
using the best ingredients, and that means baking with butter.”

  Ben licked his fingers clean. “Of course.”

  “If you’d like, you could try another,” she said, gesturing to the plate. “I brought plenty.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He had to rearrange the stack in order to get the largest of the remaining four.

  “I suppose you’d like me to tell you a bit about my background,” she said after a moment. Ben was far too busy eating to ask her questions.

  “Please.” He gestured for her to continue.

  She listed a number of restaurants where she’d been employed in the past twenty years.

  Ben barely listened. His eyes were half-closed in ecstasy as he chewed and swallowed.

  “I understand there’s a housing shortage in Hard Luck at present,” Mrs. McMurphy said next.

  Oh, yes, that was something he’d wanted to bring up. A convenient excuse and, despite Bethany’s interference, one he intended to use when he regretfully informed Mrs. McMurphy he wouldn’t be able to hire her.

  “I asked Mr. O’Halloran about the possibility of flying in from Fairbanks on a daily basis. Naturally it would depend on the hours you need me, and the flight schedule, but he seemed to think we could arrange something. Mrs. Harris also mentioned the lodge, and I called and spoke with Mr. Caldwell. They have a room I could rent during the week and then return to Fairbanks for the weekends.”

  Ben merely nodded and began to reach for a third roll.

  “Perhaps you’d care to taste my strudel,” Mrs. McMurphy suggested.

  “Only if you insist.” He shoved his empty plate toward her.

  “I’m a widow,” Mrs. McMurphy continued as she sliced off an ample portion of strudel and lifted it onto his plate. “My children are grown now, with lives of their own.”

  “Mrs. McMurphy—”

  “Please, I’d be more comfortable if you called me Mary.”

  “All right—Mary,” Ben said.

  “The strudel is an old family recipe, as well,” Mary said. “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”

  Ben slid a forkful into his mouth. If he’d been impressed with the cinnamon rolls, the apple strudel...well, the apple strudel was her triumph. The apples were tender and tart, and the delicate pastry seemed to dissolve on his tongue.

  “Again, I use only real butter.”

  “Butter,” he repeated, finishing the last exquisite bite.

  “Yes. It’s my one stipulation when it comes to baking. Seeing that you enjoy sweets, I wish I’d baked a cheesecake.”

  “I prefer the strudel.” The first piece was gone so quickly he hardly knew where it’d disappeared. He helped himself to a second serving, taking a thinner slice this time.

  “I imagine you’re wondering why I left the Sourdough Café after five years,” Mary said. Ben felt a little—only a little—embarrassed that she had to conduct her own interview. After all, he was checking out her qualifications and couldn’t ask questions at the moment. His mouth was full. “It broke my heart to leave,” she explained, “but the café recently changed hands, and the new owner was cutting corners.”

  “I see.” Mary McMurphy might be thin as a rail, but the woman knew her way around a kitchen. That much Ben would say for her. But there was far more to running a café than slapping together an apple strudel, he thought righteously.

  It was as if the woman could read his mind. “In addition to the baking, I’m an excellent short-order cook. I can see from your menu that you offer hamburgers and so on. But I also have a number of specialties, including Southern fried chicken. People have been telling me for years that mine’s as good as any colonel’s.”

  “Fried chicken?”

  “I hope you aren’t partial to instant potatoes. Now, I realize that up here in the Arctic real potatoes might be hard to come by at times. I’m not a stickler for this the way I am about using butter in my grandmother’s recipes, but I do prefer to cook with real potatoes.”

  “Mashed with cream?”

  “Does one mash them with anything else?” she asked, her large blue eyes wide and questioning.

  “What about sour-cream gravy? Can you make that?” It was going to hurt like hell to tell this woman he wouldn’t be able to hire her.

  “I’ve never made sour-cream gravy, but if you have a recipe, I’m sure I could learn.”

  “I have the recipe.”

  Mary McMurphy smiled at him. She placed the leftover strudel and cinnamon rolls back in the wicker basket and draped the blue linen napkin over them.

  “So it’s not a problem to use butter?” She regarded him expectantly.

  Before he could respond, the door opened and Bethany walked in.

  “Butter?” he repeated. “I use it myself for all my baking.”

  “Wonderful!” Mary sounded genuinely pleased.

  Slightly out of breath, Bethany approached the table. Ben knew she must have hurried over the minute school let out.

  “Hello,” Bethany greeted them, her face wreathed in a welcoming smile. “You must be Mrs. McMurphy. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to meet you.”

  “The pleasure’s mine,” the woman said with shy politeness.

  “So,” Bethany said, looking from Mary to Ben, “how’d the interview go?”

  Ben eyed the basket, praying Bethany wouldn’t learn about his lapse.

  “Very well,” Mary said. “Ben’s agreed to hire me, and furthermore he has no objection to my using butter in my recipes.”

  Hire her? Ben hadn’t said one word about hiring her.

  “Ben!” Bethany beamed with delight. “That’s wonderful.” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him enthusiastically.

  “I’ll be able to start first thing Monday morning,” Mary said, smiling broadly. “Now if you’ll both excuse me, I’ll go freshen up.”

  As soon as she left, Bethany took a chair. “I’m really happy about this, Ben. Mrs. McMurphy’s a dear, isn’t she?” She paused. “You’ll have to forgive me for doubting you, Ben. I was so sure you were going to find some flimsy reason you couldn’t hire her. I was all prepared to wage war with you. I left the school with my cannons loaded,” she said, laughing lightly. “And to think it was all for naught.”

  October 1996

  Tracy sat staring out her office window. Located on the top floor of a Seattle highrise, it had a view that was the envy of everyone who saw it. Puget Sound stretched out before her in all its splendor—deep blue water, islands thick with green firs, boats with bright billowing sails. A ferry sounded its horn as it pulled away from the pier, headed for Bainbridge Island.

  October, as always, had brought warm Chinook winds, and while it was already winter in Hard Luck, Seattle enjoyed a lingering summer.

  She’d been back a week, but it seemed more like a year. What had once been so familiar now felt strange and...a little pointless. Every night she hurried home, waiting for some word from Duke. A letter, a postcard, a message on her answering machine. She knew better than to hope, but she couldn’t seem to make herself stop.

  The only evidence of the sixteen hours she’d spent trapped in the downed plane was a thin red line on the left side of her forehead. And a heart that hungered for her pilot....

  She could’ve disguised the scar with makeup, but didn’t. It was like a badge of honor. A souvenir of those hours alone with Duke. Unfortunately her heart wouldn’t heal as easily as her skin had.

  She couldn’t think of him and not get choked up. A friend, a fellow attorney, had taken her to lunch earlier that day and suggested Tracy see a counselor. Janice seemed to think that because Tracy wasn’t interested in talking about the experience at every opportunity, she might require professional help.

  Talk about it. That was all Tracy had done for days
. She was sick of the subject. She’d told the story countless times, answered a million questions. What more did people expect of her?

  True, she’d been vague about some of the details, but those details weren’t meant to be shared. What had happened between her and Duke was special, and it belonged only to them.

  She wondered if he, too, had been hounded with questions from his friends and what he’d told them about the time they’d shared.

  Tracy had assumed—hoped, really—that once she was back to her normal life, she wouldn’t think about Duke as much. It hadn’t happened. He was with her day and night. With every waking thought. Every nonwaking one, too.

  He often visited her dreams and she awoke feeling warm and happy, remembering the night she’d spent in his embrace. But the happiness never lasted. Maybe Janice was right. Maybe she did need to see a counselor. It probably wasn’t normal to prefer a life-threatening plane crash to waking up safe in her own bed.

  Filled with nervous energy, Tracy circled her desk. She picked up one of the greeting cards she’d bought that afternoon while walking along the waterfront. Some were humorous. Some sincere. Others blank. But they all had one thing in common.

  They were meant for Duke.

  The temptation to mail him a card now was almost too strong to resist. It’d be nothing more than a friendly gesture to ask how he was, how his arm was healing. Or so she told herself. Still, she hesitated.

  Duke wasn’t like any man she’d ever known. What applied to other relationships didn’t work with him. Always before, Tracy had been the one in charge. She decided when they’d date. Where they’d go, and most importantly, how often they’d see each other. This time, Tracy couldn’t set the rules. Duke was a man who followed his own rules.

  The intercom buzzed. Tracy walked around her desk and leaned over to push the button. The receptionist’s voice came on. The office was technically closed, and it was late to be receiving phone calls.

  “Yes, Gloria?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Ms. Santiago. I was just putting on the answering service and the call came through. I can ask the caller to try you again tomorrow if you want.”