Sharing Spaces
Nadia Nichols
Go Fish!Senna McCallum was never close to her grandfather, so when he leaves her his new business–a rustic Labrador fishing retreat–she's shocked, to say the least. Especially when she discovers there's a catch: he owns only half the business. The other half belongs to a man named Jack Hanson.All Senna wants to do is get in, sell her share and get out. But it isn't quite that easy. For one thing, Jack's not the old man she assumed he was. He's thirtysomething, handsome and stubborn. For another, Senna finds herself increasingly drawn to Jack's way of life. As they work to make the fishing lodge a success, she begins to wonder if she wants to be more than just his business partner….
“I already have a career, Mr. Hanson, and it doesn’t involve Labrador.”
“No,” he said. “It involves other people’s weddings. I got that part. But this place’ll grow on you, I guarantee it, and the fishing lodge will generate enough income to make you happy even if you’re an absentee business partner living and working in Maine.”
He towered over her, his eyes intense. “We’re only two weeks away from opening. I just need to find another fishing guide or two. At least think about keeping your grandfather’s half. But know this,” he added. “If you decide to sell out, I’m not going to make it easy for you. I’ve worked my ass off to help make this place what it is. This is my future we’re talking about, not to mention your grandfather’s lifelong dream.”
Before Senna could respond, he strode away, leaving her standing on the dock staring after him.
Her life, up until this very day, had been fairly steady, safe and predictable, but suddenly she found herself in the middle of a whole bunch of unknowns—and in spite of the dubious circumstances, she found herself looking forward to exploring them, even if it was just for two weeks.
Dear Reader,
I am haunted by Labrador. I first saw this wild and lonely land in 1991, behind a team of Alaskan huskies while running the Labrador 400 sled dog race. The race began in a snowstorm that ended two days later and found my team and me lost in a kind of wilderness we’d never experienced before. This is a land of caribou and wolves, of Innu and Inuit, of savage shrieking winds that both humble and exult. This is a land of brilliant displays of northern lights, a land where the silence—when the storm finally passes—is so still that it’s loud to the ears.
We eventually found our way out of that wild place, thanks to a bush pilot my parents hired to find us, but we never found a way to escape the pull of it. That pull brought us back to race the following season, and the memories of those two journeys tugged at me throughout the years and caused endless discussions of “going there again” with my father, who had been equally taken by the truly wild character of the land. In fact, one of the last conversations I had with my dad was about Labrador and buying a cabin there. I bought a place in Labrador last year, on the first anniversary of his death. It’s a remote cabin fifty odd miles from the nearest road, on the shores of the same wild lake that scrambled me and my team so badly in that first race. Wolves and caribou travel the gravel strand in front of the cabin, the wind blows free and the waves lap up against the shore. It’s a beautiful, lonely spot, a place that heals the spirit and nourishes the soul.
This story is about two people from different worlds and different backgrounds being thrown together as business partners in this remote wilderness. How they adapt to this reluctant partnership and come to terms with each other and with the land itself is a tribute to their characters, and perhaps even more than that, it is a tribute to the healing power of nature and love’s eternal optimism.
Nadia Nichols
Sharing Spaces
Nadia Nichols
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This one’s for you, Dad.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
LIKE MOST WEDDINGS held at the Inn on Christmas Cove, this one had been in the works for well over a year, but unlike most weddings, this one had been under Senna McCallum’s sole charge right from the start. She was personally handling this wedding because Sheila Payson, the bride’s mother, had asked her to, and nobody said no to Sheila Payson, who was heir to the Payson dynasty and used to getting her own way in all things. Senna had been working at the inn her mother’s sister owned for the past five years, her first two as a sales associate, learning the ropes, and then as head of the sales department, the person who oversaw each and every function and made sure everything down to the smallest detail was perfect. At twenty-nine, Senna had already garnered enough of a reputation to have attracted the attention of Mrs. Payson, which was quite an achievement for someone with a bachelor of science in wildlife biology.
The details had been endless, and the phone calls and visits from the bride and her mother had become more and more frequent, as many as two or three a week as the date drew near. Now that the big day had finally arrived, Senna was relieved. The weather, which was iffy in late June on the Maine coast, was bright and clear. Fogs could shroud Christmas Cove, creating a damp gray mood not at all conducive to nuptial festivities, or it could be stormy and rainy. But luck was with them, and the dark, sparkling cove with its rugged granite ledge and wind-stunted evergreens had never looked more beautiful.
The ceremony itself was held beneath the arbor in the rose garden and had gone off without any problems. The first hour of the reception before the guests moved into the ballroom for dinner was in full swing to the accompaniment of a string quartet. The wait staff were passing crab cakes with rémoulade, lobster salad in endive spears and chicken satay with peanut sauce. The first and second hors d’oeuvre stations were abundantly supplied with jumbo shrimp, Jonah crab claws, mahogany clams and oysters on the half shell. The reception was progressing more smoothly than Senna had dared hope when the inn’s general manager took her aside.
“Senna? You have a call from your mother,” Linda Sherwood said, handing her the portable phone.
Senna thanked Linda and moved around the corner of the building for privacy. “Hi Mom, what’s up?”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” her mother said. She sounded upset, and Senna’s grip on the phone tightened. “Your grandfather passed away on Wednesday. His lawyer called a little while ago.”
Senna closed her eyes with relief that her brothers were okay. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mom. I wish we’d been closer to him, but—”
“Senna, I know you’re busy so I won’t beat around the bush,” her mother interrupted. “According to the lawyer, the admiral named you as his executor.”
“What? Are you sure? Why not Billy or Bryce?” Senna caught a glimpse of movement. The banquet director hovered nearby, an apologetic look on her face, and tapped the face of her wristwatch. It was time to move the wedding party into the ballroom. Senna nodded that she understood. “Mom, I’m sorry, but I have to go. We’re right in the middle of a big wedding. I have tomorrow off so I’ll come over right after I get out of work tonight and we can talk in the morning. Love you, and leave the porch light on for me.”
Senna stood for a few moments, collecting her thoughts before rejoining the wedding party. It had been five years since she’d last seen her grandfather. A lean, stern man, gruff to the point of being scary and used to being obeyed after a career in the Navy, Senna had always been more than a little afraid of him. Secretly she’d pitied her father, the only child of a man who had probably never dispensed a word of praise or a heartfelt hug in his entire life. Maybe that’s why he’d turned out to be so aloof himself. With the admiral as a role model and a mother who’d died when he’d been a boy, what choice did he have? But why on earth would the admiral, a chauvinist to the core, have chosen her over one of his grandsons to settle his estate?
The banquet director sneaked another questioning peek around the corner of the building and Senna drew a deep breath. “I’m coming,” she said, and stepped out into the golden sunlight. The scents of rugosa roses, freshly mown grass and the salt air mingled with the tantalizing aroma of foods. Servers in black and white circulated among the guests, carrying silver champagne and hors d’oeuvre trays, and the strains of the string quartet gave the afternoon an elegant, romantic mood.
Senna’s practiced eye took in the dynamics of the reception and was satisfied with what she saw. Everything was going exactly according to plan. She approached the bride, who was radiant in her satin Reem Acra gown, and touched her arm gently. “Excuse me, Sophia,” she said, “but we’ll be moving into the ballroom shortly. It’s time for everyone to be seated.”
FIVE LONG HOURS LATER, just after eleven, she arrived at her mother’s house in Castine. The lights were on in the kitchen and her mother was up, waiting for her. She opened the door in her flannel nightgown and bathrobe, her hair plaited in a long braid over one shoulder. “You must be exhausted,” she said.
“It’s been a long day,” Senna admitted, relishing the feeling of coming home. She no longer lived here and hadn’t since she went away to college, but the old homestead had been in her mother’s family for over two hundred years. There was something about the place that always made her feel comfortable and safe. The kitchen was just the way she remembered it as a young child, when Gram and Gramp were still alive. Her mother had kept the teakettle on the back of the wood cookstove, and she poured two cups. They sat at the table together and nibbled on gingersnap cookies.
“So, tell me everything you know,” Senna said.
Her mother sighed. “That’s not much, I’m afraid. Your grandfather died in Labrador. He was living near a place called North West River. Apparently he was diagnosed with cancer a year ago and the doctors didn’t expect him to live this long.”
Senna took a sip of tea and sighed, easing a cramp between her shoulder blades. “Labrador. You’d think he would have named an executor who lived in the area, and one who was a little bit closer to him.”
“The funeral was held today and the admiral is being cremated, per his wishes. The lawyer would have called you directly with all of this information but the only phone number he had was this one.”
Senna took another sip of tea. It was strong and good. She was tired to the point of feeling dizzy. “I’ll call him first thing Monday morning.”
“There’s property that will have to be disposed of,” her mother said.
“What kind of property?”
“The lawyer mentioned a house, a vehicle, an airplane and a fishing camp.”
Senna frowned over the curl of steam that rose from her mug. “Maybe he’d sell it all for a consignment fee. He could mail or fax me all the legal forms I need to sign, I could notarize them and send them back….”
“You’d better go and look the situation over so you know exactly what the estate consists of before making any decisions,” her mother advised.
Senna shook her head. “Mom, I don’t think I can get away from work. We’re just getting into the busy season.”
“You haven’t taken a vacation in several years,” her mother pointed out. “Labrador sounds like a wild place, and you like wild places, Senna. I’m sure your aunt would let you have some time off.”
“Yes, she would, but that wouldn’t be much of a vacation. Are you sure the admiral wasn’t married?”
“Positive. He called it quits after wife number three. If you took two weeks off, you’d have time to explore some of the country and time to think about some important things, like your future with Tim, and your job as sales director at the inn.”
Senna lifted her chin out of her palm and blinked the sleep from her eyes. “What makes you think I need to do that?”
“I’m your mother. I know how much you miss being a wildlife biologist, and I know you aren’t in love with Tim Cromwell even though he’s hopelessly in love with you and has been for years.”
Senna gazed at her, amazed. “As a matter of fact, Tim and I broke up a few weeks ago. We’re still friends and probably always will be, but you’re right. I wasn’t in love with him.”
Her mother’s eyebrows raised. “How did Tim feel about that?”
“He took it pretty hard. He still thinks I’ll eventually realize that he’s the man for me. Tim’s a good guy and he deserves to have a woman who’s crazy about him. He’ll be a lot better off without me. And yes, I miss being a biologist, but I like working at the inn. I’ve learned a lot, and the pay is a lot better than what I was making working for the state.”
Her mother wisely refrained from commenting. She took a sip of tea and continued, “The lawyer told me your grandfather’s been living in Labrador ever since he retired from the Navy shortly after your father died.”
“Why Labrador?”
“Apparently he was big into fishing, and the fishing’s quite good there.”
“Fishing.” Senna dropped her chin back into her palm with a sigh. “That figures. The old sea wolf couldn’t stay away from the water.”
Her mother stirred another dollop of honey into her tea. “Senna, the admiral’s last request was that you handle his estate, and I think you should honor it. You are a McCallum, after all.”
THE JOURNEY FROM CASTINE to Labrador was a circuitous one at best, and expensive to boot. From Bangor, Senna flew to Quebec City, from Quebec City to Wabush, from Wabush to Goose Bay. It didn’t seem too difficult to connect the dots, but flights to Goose Bay weren’t like flights to Boston. One didn’t have many choices, so she had to lay over a night in Quebec before catching the flights to Wabush and Goose Bay. Arriving at 2:00 p.m., she immediately phoned the lawyer to find out where her grandfather’s house was located. There was no point in racking up more expenses at a hotel if she could stay there while she got his affairs in order. Two weeks was two weeks, though with any luck she’d have everything done in half that time.
“Well, m’dear,” the lawyer, an older-sounding gentleman whose name was Lindo Granville, said upon hearing her out. “The thing is, your grandfather’s house isn’t exactly in Goose Bay, y’see?”
Senna tried to place the accent, which sounded very Celtic. “Well, if you could tell me how to get there, I could stop by your office for the key.”
“Key? I doubt the place is locked up, m’dear. Do you have a car? I’d be happy to drive you over if you don’t.”
“I’ve already rented one, thank you. I’m at the airport now. I thought I’d stop by your office first, if that’s all right. I’d like to start settling my grandfather’s estate as soon as possible.”
Lindo Granville was as pleasant in person as he’d been on the phone. He was a ruddy-faced man in his late sixties who looked as if he’d spent much of his life out of doors, not ensconced in an office pushing papers around his desk. He invited Senna in, poured her a cup of strong, black tea, finally found what he was looking for on his cluttered desk, and handed her the admiral’s last will and testament. “It’s up to date, he was in town just last week,” Granville said. “We had lunch together and he made a few amendments prior to that.”
“He must have known he was going to die soon,” Senna said, steeling herself as she looked down at the legal papers.
“Yes.” Granville nodded. “Didn’t feel the least bit sorry for himself, though. He was more worried about his business partner.”
“Business partner?” Senna glanced up. This was a new twist.
“John Hanson. They were good friends. Hanson stayed with him ’til the very end, so’s the admiral could die at the lake house. He didn’t want to die in a hospital, y’see, and I don’t blame him one bit for that, but he needed a lot of care towards the end. You’ll meet John Hanson by and by, if he survived your grandfather’s wake. The last time I saw him he was full of screech and dancing with my sister, Goody.”
“Screech?”
“Screech is Labrador’s own brand of hooch. Rum. Powerful stuff, and he’d drunk a powerful dose, y’see.”
Senna pictured a drunken old man clasping a drunken old woman at a classic Irish wake and inwardly winced. “What kind of business did they share?”
“A fishing lodge. Outfitting and guiding,” Granville said. “They were just getting started when the admiral was stricken. If you read the will, you’ll see that he left everything to you.”
The lawyer’s words struck like a bolt of lightning. “Everything?”
“Yes, m’dear. Everything. A word of caution, there’s very little remaining in his bank account, the lodge’s construction costs took the most of it, and there are some liens that need to be paid, but the properties are worth a considerable sum.”
Senna scanned the words rapidly. Sure enough, there it was, in black and white. Admiral Stuart McCallum had left all his worldly possessions to her. Senna sat back in her chair, dumbfounded. “May I take a copy of the will with me? I can read it more closely tonight.”
“Of course, m’dear, and as soon as you’re ready, I’ll help you through the probate procedures. You’ll need to be legally appointed as his executor and we can start that process right now if you want to sign a few papers. Because we’re dealing with international paperwork, everything will take a little more time, I’m afraid. Do you have a lawyer you’d like me to work with on your end?”
Senna nodded and handed him the business card of the firm who had handled her father’s affairs. “I’d like to fast-track this process and I’d appreciate your help. I’m hoping to sell his share of the business as soon as possible.”
Thirty minutes later the legal matters were in the works and Senna was ready to leave. “Now then,” Granville told her. “You’ll need to drive to North West River and ask anyone there where the admiral’s house is. They’ll tell you.” He hesitated. “Do you have a place to stay?”
“I plan to stay there, of course,” Senna said briskly.
Granville paused. “The thing is, m’dear, the admiral was a bachelor and for that matter, so is John Hanson.”
“I’m sure I’ll survive whatever state of bachelorhood his house is in, Mr. Granville. I grew up with two brothers who were the biggest slobs on earth. Really, I’ll be fine. Thank you again for all your help.”
There was another pause. “Well, you see, m’dear, the lake-house property was part of the business, and half belongs to John Hanson.”
“Don’t worry,” she reassured him, because he did seem genuinely troubled. “I’m sure I’ll find the half that was my grandfather’s.”
Granville’s frown of concern deepened, and Senna wondered if perhaps John Hanson was so old as to be a little bit daffy. “You’re welcome to stay with the wife and me, m’dear. We’d love the company.”
“That’s very kind of you to offer, Mr. Granville, but I need some closure, and I’m hoping to find it at my grandfather’s house. Besides, Mr. Hanson and I have some business matters to discuss, and the sooner we get that dialogue started the better.”
Twenty minutes later, Senna was driving through a land that was wilder than any she’d ever seen. She was used to the rocky coast of Maine, but Labrador was much more remote and far less populated, and once out of Goose Bay there was only one road. She caught glimpses of the water through the fringe of black spruce on her right. The highway map designated this as Lake Melville. The drive to North West River didn’t take long. By 4:00 p.m. she was there, and, heeding Granville’s directions, she pulled to a stop across from the first person she saw, rolled down the window, and asked, “Excuse me, but would you happen to know where the admiral’s house is?”
The towheaded blue-eyed boy was pushing a bike with a flat tire. His expression was lively and open, and he said, “Take the next left that leads up the south shore of the lake. You’ll hear ’em, when you gets close. The admiral’s dogs,” he explained, noting her expression. “You’ll hear ’em, but you’re too late. You missed the wake by a day. It was a good one, too, from all I heard.” Then off he went, pushing his bike along the gravel road.
She followed the directions he’d given, and drove cautiously up a narrower road that appeared to be bereft of human habitations. She wondered, after a few kilometers, if the boy had been pulling her leg. There were tire tracks, to be sure, and she could see the gleam of the lake through thick stands of black spruce from time to time. But no houses.
Senna stopped the car and turned off the ignition, rolling down the window again. She listened intently in the silence and heard eerie, undulating wails reverberating through the forest. Wolves, and not that far away. She felt a tingle of excitement at the thought of actually catching sight of one. There were wolves here, and one of the biggest caribou herds in the world, and the native people were called Innu and Inuit. She knew as much from reading the literature on the Air Canada flight this morning. What she didn’t know, as she sat in the rental car and listened to the wild howling, was why her grandfather had chosen to live out his last years here, far removed from the Navy’s elite social circles and manicured golf courses. Why had he chosen to live in such a remote land and why had he named her as his executor? She was hoping she’d find some answers when she reached the house, but even if she didn’t, seeing a pack of wolves or a herd of caribou would definitely make this journey north worthwhile. Her mother had been right.
As usual.
She started the rental car and crept cautiously forward, keenly scanning both sides of the road and hoping for a glimpse of the wolves she’d heard. She caught the flash of lake water and a bright opening up ahead in the forest of spruce. Sunlight spilled into a clearing. There was a building and a truck. Make that two buildings and two trucks. She stopped again, assessing the place. This had to be her destination, since the road ended here. The big building was somewhat of an architectural oddity, grander than many she’d seen since her arrival and resembling one of Maine’s old Rangely Lake houses. With its big center chimney and gabled roof, log construction and a spacious porch that faced the water, it had all the earmarks of a tranquil lakeside retreat.
A second, smaller structure nestled back into the trees, was also built of logs, but had a broad, low Alaskan-style roof with deep eaves. Perhaps that was the place where John Hanson lived, since the admiral, possessing an ego the size of the Atlantic, would surely have lived in the bigger of the two cabins.
Senna stared, trying to take it all in. The lake was vast. She couldn’t see the end of it by a long shot. There was a dock that jutted into the water, and a float plane was tethered at the dock’s T-junction. The wolves were howling again, but even as she sat there, engine idling, the noise faded. She drove a little closer, feeling foolishly timid. She had every right to be here, after all.
There didn’t appear to be any phone or electric lines anywhere near the place, and the property looked neglected. Upon closer inspection she could see trash scattered here and there. Beer cans and bottles. She cut the ignition again and immediately the whine of hungry mosquitoes filled the silence. That, and the rhythmic wash of lake water against the dock pilings and the gravelly shore. She got out of the car, closing the door quietly and standing for a moment, swatting at the mosquitoes and wondering if it might not be a good idea to retreat to Goose Bay and come back early in the morning. She was tired and the land was unfamiliar to her. She’d like to get something to eat and read through the stack of legal papers Granville had given her.
First, though, she wanted to make some connection with her grandfather, whom she hadn’t seen since her father’s funeral and would never see again. Besides, in this northern latitude the sun was still high. She had plenty of time to find her way back to Goose Bay. She kicked a Labatt can out of the way as she walked up the path, climbed the weathered steps and opened the screen door, entering onto the porch and peeking through a window that could have stood a good polishing. It was dark inside, and gloomy. Senna hesitated before trying the front door, glancing around and trying to imagine her grandfather living like this. The porch was littered with pizza boxes, paper napkins, cigarette butts, more beer cans and bottles. The boy had mentioned that the wake had been a good one, but it would have been nice if they’d tidied up afterward.
She knocked sharply at the door and predictably received no response. The doorknob turned easily and she stepped into the entry hall. To her left was a living room with four big double-hung nine-over-six windows looking out on the lake and a handsome stone fireplace. A staircase in front of her ascended presumably to the second-floor bedrooms, and she glimpsed a large kitchen through the doorway to the right. She closed the door on the whine of mosquitoes and almost immediately became aware of another noise, far deeper and much more ominous than the frantic hum of hungry insects. Senna stood quietly for a moment, analyzing the rumblings, which sounded very much like loud snoring being rhythmically and robustly delivered from upstairs.
She hesitated again. Could she possibly be in the wrong house? Could the smaller cabin belong to her grandfather? She glanced around furtively while upstairs the snores resonated like thunder. There was only one surefire way to find out. Senna crept into the living room, feeling a bit like a criminal, opened a corner desk, riffled through a stack of papers and spied several bills and correspondence with her grandfather’s name on them. She breathed a silent sigh of relief. At least she was in the right place, but if this was her grandfather’s house, then who was upstairs? Could it be that John Hanson had drunk so much hooch at the wake that he’d been unable to make it back to his own cabin?
She stood at the foot of the stairs and thought about calling out, but couldn’t bring herself to deliver more than a tentative, “Hello?”
Her voice sounded woefully feeble, and she got no reply. If the snoring was being generated by the admiral’s business partner, a man probably well into his seventies or better, he might be completely deaf. She crept up the stairs. At the top were two bedroom doors, one opening to the left, the other to the right. She froze with uncertainty, heart hammering against her ribs, then peeked cautiously around the left-hand door from whence the hearty snoring noises emanated. Senna noted the small bedroom, the double bed with a brightly colored Hudson’s Bay candy-stripe wool blanket laid atop, dormered window that looked out on the lake. Pine bureau, mirror, chair, braided rug. There was a simple, rustic charm to the room. On the bed, sprawled upon its side, was an enormous furry dog. Some kind of northern breed closely related to a wolf, by the looks of it, old and grizzled, paws twitching in the midst of some lively dream, and snoring with deep and absolute contentment.
She backed quietly out of the room, relieved, and drew a deep breath. The lawyer hadn’t mentioned animals, but that husky certainly looked like it belonged on that bed. Senna peered warily around the other door, preparing herself for another wolf-like creature, and nearly gasped aloud when she saw what was lying on the bed in the second bedroom.
Definitely not a dog, and most definitely not her grandfather’s elderly business partner. A man was sprawled crosswise on the mattress. He was face down, head and shoulders hanging over the edge, arms dangling, knuckles brushing the floor. Naked to the waist, blue jeans, bare feet.
Silent and unmoving.
She took a step forward, studying his form for any signs of life even as the newspaper headlines flashed through her imagination.
Executor Discovers Body in Bedroom of Deceased Grandfather’s House.
But no. There was movement. The man was breathing. Not snoring, like the dog, but sleeping with the same deep stupor. This bedroom, however, in stark contrast to the first, was a mess. Beer cans were strewn on the floor, clothing was flung everywhere. The bureau drawers were ajar, the top cluttered with more trash and paraphernalia, and the mirror so plastered with pictures that hardly any glass remained exposed. She studied the chaos for a moment in disgust, then glanced back at the unconscious man, unable to squelch her curiosity.
She couldn’t see his face, but his hair was dark, glossy and tousled. His back, shoulders and arms looked strong; smooth well-knit muscles tapered into a lean waist. In spite of the fact that the man was completely relaxed in sleep, she sensed enormous power, the same power she’d once witnessed in a mountain lion dozing in the sun on a rock outcrop in the mountains of Montana. Senna swallowed a nervous laugh. What a thing for her to be doing, standing here staring at a strange man sleeping in her grandfather’s house and comparing him to a mountain lion. What on earth was the matter with her?
More to the point, what was she to do? This man could be a mass murderer, for all she knew, and this place was remote enough to make her uneasy at the thought of confronting him without some means of defending herself. She backed out of the room, returned to the kitchen, and picked up first thing she saw that would qualify—a cast-iron frying pan on the stovetop with about an inch of bacon fat solidified in the bottom. Returning to the second floor, she cleared her throat and knocked briskly on the door frame, neither of which had any effect in rousing the man.
“Excuse me,” she said in her most professional Do-not-argue-with-me-I’m-the-sales-director voice—which had an equal lack of effect.
“Excuse me,” she repeated, louder this time.
One dangling arm twitched and she tensed for the ugly confrontation, but all the man did was shift slightly, groan as if the effort cost him, and then resume his sleep.
Senna lifted the frying pan and rapped it against the door. The sharp gunshot of noise was impressive. “Hello!” she said. “You need to wake up, please. Tell me who you are and what you’re doing in my grandfather’s house.”
The man thrashed weakly, moaned and rolled over. One arm flung out, hand groping blindly for the pillow to bring it over his face to shut out the daylight…but not before she caught a glimpse of a dark, unshaven jaw and a rugged profile. “Goway,” a deep voice rumbled, muffled beneath the pillow.
On his back now, baring his broad chest, flat stomach, dark line of hair disappearing into the belt line of his jeans. Arms and shoulders definitely well-defined with muscle, hands strong and calloused as if he worked hard for a living. Sexual, in a very primal way—not that she was noticing.
“Look, mister, I’m warning you right now, you’d better vacate these premises. This is Admiral Stuart McCallum’s house, I’m taking possession of it, and if you don’t leave right now I’ll call the police, or the Mounties, or whatever you call them up here.”
“Goway.” The man’s second gruff utterance was an echo of the first.
Senna heard a noise behind her. A stealthy sound, soft and menacing. As she turned her head she saw that the large and grizzled husky, who moments before had been snoring quite loudly on the bed in the other room, was now standing in the doorway behind her. Its eyes were yellow and its stance was rigid and threatening. Senna realized that in the great beast’s eyes she was the stranger here, the trespasser, and she remained very still.
“Easy,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry and her grip tightening on the frying pan. “Good boy. Nice dog. Easy…”
“Chilkat, down.” The man’s voice, muffled by the pillow, was nonetheless authoritative. The husky immediately hunched to the floor, but its eyes never wavered from Senna. She swallowed and glanced toward the bed. The pillow was no longer over the man’s face but his eyes were closed tight on a pained expression.
“He’s lying down now,” she said, wincing at the quaver in her voice.
“Uh-huh.” Spoken as if he already knew.
“Is this your dog?”
“Uh-uh.” Uttered as if she should know that, if she had half a brain. One hand lifted, rubbed his face, then he shifted sideways and squinted up at her. “Who the hell are you, and why are you threatening me with a frying pan?” he said, speaking slowly, as if the sound of his own words caused him great suffering.
Senna’s chin lifted. “My name is Senna McCallum and I’m the admiral’s granddaughter. Who are you, and what are you doing in this house?”
“I’m John Hanson, I live here, and I’m trying to get some sleep.”
Senna was shocked. “But you can’t be my grandfather’s business partner. You’re not old enough.”
He made a noise that could have passed for a groan. “If it’s any consolation, I feel very old right now.” He struggled onto his elbows. “I don’t suppose you could make some coffee and bring me a cup? Coffee’s in the lower cupboard to the left of the stove. And you better put that damn frying pan on the floor before Chilkat grabs it out of your hand. He’s the pot licker around here and you’re driving him crazy.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE ADMIRAL HAD KNOWN he was sick long before he was diagnosed with cancer. His energy levels had been dropping steadily, and the pain that he used to hold at bay with handfuls of aspirin began to cripple him up. He’d finally sought professional advice. Aside from announcing to Jack with blunt matter-of-fact realism, that the doctor had told him he wouldn’t live out the year, McCallum never spoke of his illness. The two of them carried on as if by ignoring the bad news, eventually it would go away. This was fine with Jack. He’d come to like the admiral very much in the eight years he’d known the man, so he’d just as soon avoid any discussions of the unfair and untimely fate that awaited his friend.
Jack knew the admiral came off as a cold-hearted bastard to the multitudes who had dealt with him in the military, but he had an advantage that most people didn’t. He knew the admiral was a dyed-in-the-wool fly fisherman who lived and breathed to cast his lines upon some of the greatest fishing waters in the world, so when Jack’s commanding officer had asked him eight years ago for some advice about where to take his father fishing, Jack never missed a beat.
“Labrador,” he said. “That’s one of few places left on this continent where fish are still the size God intended them to be, and the wilderness is still wild.”
His commanding officer wanted to know more, and Jack was happy to provide any and all information. When his CO asked if he’d like to come along as an informal guide, all expenses paid, Jack could scarcely believe his luck. “Yes, sir,” he’d said, immediately. “I’d be glad to.”
“My father’s an admiral,” his CO had warned.
“I know he is, sir. I’ll be on my best behavior,” Jack promised.
Jack’s CO was Stuart McCallum, Jr., son of Admiral Stuart McCallum, the Sea Wolf, who had long been known as the toughest, meanest admiral in the fleet. But if he was a genuine fly fisherman, Jack was sure he’d find some common ground with the crusty old man. He’d been prepared for the worst, but on that trip with the two McCallums he’d made a good friend of the old admiral. They’d fished annually in Labrador until his CO died in a plane crash and the admiral retired that same year. Two years later Jack had taken a midnight phone call on board a ship in the middle of the Persian Gulf.
“McCallum here,” the gruff voice said. “I’m in Labrador, looking at a piece of property, and I need your advice.”
It took him a while, the Navy being the way it was about unscheduled leave and all that, but the old sea wolf, though retired, still had some pull. Two weeks later Jack was standing on the shore of Grand Lake, a major jumping-off point to all of Labrador’s intriguing wilds, and the admiral was saying in his raspy voice, “I want to retire here, Hanson. I want to build a place right on this lake, and I want to build a fishing lodge in the interior that’s only accessible by float plane for people who care enough to make the effort. I’m looking for a business partner, if you’re interested. How long can you stay?”
Jack stayed as long as he dared, being as he was only a captain himself and not ready or willing to be court-martialed, but when he left, the admiral was already beginning construction of his retirement home. One year later, Jack’s marriage was over and he decided to end his naval career as well. True to his words, the admiral readily allowed the younger man to buy into his Labrador dream.
And what a dream it was. That the admiral could harbor ambitions that required such vision and herculean physical effort astounded Jack, who believed himself to be unique in that regard. But the admiral’s tireless strength had played out rapidly near the end of the project on the Wolf River. His doctor advised him to return to the States for further tests and chemotherapy treatments, but Admiral McCallum had no use for doctors or hospitals. “I’ll die in my own place, and in my own time,” he said. “I want to see our lodge on the Wolf River completed. I want to sit on the porch and sip my scotch and watch the river run past. I want to see the salmon come up it to spawn. I need to know that life goes on, no matter what.”
They’d both worked hard toward making that vision become a reality, though Jack shouldered the brunt of the work in the final year of the admiral’s life. As his health steadily failed, McCallum lost energy but he never lost sight of his dream. The last time Jack had flown the old man into the interior and landed on the river just below the lodge, McCallum had known he’d never live to see it up and running.
“Put my chair on the porch,” he said that evening, laboring for each precious breath. “I’ll sip my scotch and watch the sun go down.”
One week later, the admiral was dead. All of North West River gathered for the traditional Irish wake the old admiral had requested, though McCallum was only half Irish, the other half being pure bull-headed Scot. All of North West River attended the party, a grand send-off the old man would have enjoyed…all except the part where the wedding planner showed up, and Jack won their last bet.
It was one of the few times he and the admiral had spoken about what would come after.
“I’ve named my granddaughter executor of my estate,” McCallum had said. Jack was feeding the sled dogs, and the admiral walked out to the dog yard to smoke his pipe and watch. Retired from the team, Chilkat was his constant companion, but the admiral’s faded blue eyes softened as he looked upon the dogs. Clearly, he loved them all.
Jack straightened from ladling soupy dog food into a bowl. “The wedding planner?” he said. “Why not one of your grandsons?”
“They’re city boys. They wouldn’t want anything to do with a place like this. Senna’s the only one who might feel something for it.”
Senna McCallum was the only person the admiral regularly spoke of in his family, though he also had two grandsons living somewhere on the East coast and a spinster sister out in Oregon. He’d told Jack about Senna right at the outset on that first fishing trip. “She’s a good girl. Spirited, but lacks guidance. Makes all the wrong choices. She’ll end up the way most girls do, paying homage to a man that’s not good enough for her, raising a bunch of spoiled brats that want and get everything for nothing. Too bad, because she’s sharp. She could go places, if she’d just take some good advice, but she doesn’t think much of her old grandfather. Never listened to a thing I said.”
Since then, he’d made brief but frequent references to Senna, which Jack had strung together into this general assessment: She makes her living planning other people’s weddings. Got her degree in wildlife biology, wrote a brilliant paper on the Yellowstone wolf pack and landed a good job with the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife, but couldn’t hack the politics. Couldn’t compromise what she knew to be right with what would keep her employed. She’s too brash, doesn’t know when to pull her horns in. Was let go for stirring up all kinds of controversy and bucking the big hunting lobby over the snaring of coyotes and the baiting of bears with stale doughnuts. Spunky. She made the front page of the paper at a big legislative hearing in Augusta. Shortly after that she was conveniently laid off. Her mother’s sister owns a country inn on the Maine coast, and her aunt gave her a job there, so now she’s nothing but a wedding planner.
A wedding planner was someone who dealt with weepy, emotional brides, bossy overbearing mothers and grooms who didn’t realize what the hell they were getting into. Queasy. Jack couldn’t imagine a more insipid career, and knew from listening to the admiral talk that he wouldn’t like his granddaughter at all. He hoped she never showed up in Labrador.
“She doesn’t give a hoot about me,” the admiral alleged not a week before his death, puffing on his pipe with a contemplative gaze, “and that’s not her fault. I was never a very warm and friendly grandfather. I didn’t know how to be. And after her father died I didn’t visit them anymore. Senna’s mother never liked me much, nor did the boys. It was easier to stay away. I doubt Senna will come to Labrador when I die. But I’ve made it all nice and legal. Did it yesterday, in Goose Bay, with Granville. Just so you know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wish you’d quit calling me that, son,” the admiral said in a quiet voice, gazing out at the dogs.
“Yes, sir.”
“She won’t come.”
Jack stood, holding the five-gallon pail and the dog-food scoop. “She’ll come.”
The old man shook his head. “Not in a million years.”
“Bet you a thousand bucks she shows up.”
McCallum’s eyes flickered momentarily with that old fighting man’s gleam. “You’re on, but you’ll lose,” he said, extending his hand to seal the pact. “Give my winnings to Goody Stewart. She needs the money more than you do, and she’s a damn fine woman.”
“You should’ve married her,” Jack said.
The admiral turned away with a shake of his head, shoulders bowed beneath the weight of the years and the pain that had beaten him in the end. “I’ve never been able to make any woman happy. Goody deserves to be happy.”
But Goody wasn’t going to get the admiral’s money, not that there was any to give, because Jack was at this very moment looking into a pair of angry eyes—gray, pale blue?—that belonged to the admiral’s granddaughter.
He struggled up onto his elbows, trying to focus his eyes. Not easy, after the past few days. Damn hard, in fact. Better just to go back to sleep. Sleep it off. Sleep off everything, but she was right in his face, pointing her finger, waving a frying pan, and threatening to bring in the Mounties. Sergeant Preston and all that. He squinted and blinked. She was wearing a dark conservative skirt suit that showed off a pair of the shapeliest legs he’d seen in a dog’s age.
He rubbed a hand over his face and wished she’d shut up before his head exploded. There was nothing like a good old-fashioned Irish wake to bring out the best and the worst in a bottle of booze.
She should be planning her own wedding. That’s what the admiral had told him about his granddaughter. “She deserves to be barefoot and in the kitchen if planning weddings is all she aspires to.” The admiral had set very high standards, and woe to the granddaughter who lowered the bar, intentionally or not.
“Or not,” Jack muttered, interrupting Senna McCallum’s diatribe about how she was here to settle the admiral’s estate and had no intentions of playing cook and housekeeper to a hungover heathen who couldn’t even sit up in bed. He was pleased that his words had startled her into momentary silence, giving him another chance to eye those slender, feminine legs.
“Or not what?” she said, spine stiffening, frying pan lowering a bit. Her hair was gorgeous, the rich gloss of mahogany framing an equally beautiful and expressive face that just now was scowling on the stern side, but he bet that when she smiled her radiance would shame the sun. And damn, those legs of hers would rival any high-paid model’s…
“You didn’t deliberately get yourself discharged from your wildlife job just to spite the admiral. It was purely accidental,” Jack said. “I’m sure of it.”
“What are you talking about?” She recoiled as if he were rabid.
“Your grandfather told me all about you, but he never mentioned how good you looked in a skirt.”
If anything, her demeanor became more hostile and her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Then you really are John Hanson.”
“I prefer Jack,” he said. He extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
She declined to shake his hand, taking yet another step back instead. “We need to talk,” she said.
Jack needed aspirin, strong coffee and a lot more sleep, but since obviously none of these mercies were forthcoming, he sat up, very slowly, and attempted once again to focus his eyes on the young woman standing in his bedroom. “We threw a wake for your grandfather yesterday…or was it the day before? I’ve lost track. Damned sorry you had to see the place in such a mess, but it was a good old-fashioned Irish wake, just like the admiral wanted, and I’m not sorry about that. He deserved a good send-off.”
In spite of the effort this explanation had cost him, there wasn’t an ounce of sympathy or understanding in her expression. “That explains all the trash. I’m here to settle his estate and I had hoped to be able to discuss this with you as soon as possible, but I can see that’s not going to be any time soon.” She paused to glance down at the dog. “Is your dog about to attack me?”
Jack glanced at Chilkat, who was still eyeing her intently. “Like I told you before, he just wants to clean the grease out of the frying pan you’re holding. That’s his job and he takes it very seriously. And for your information, that dog belongs to you now, Ms. McCallum. His name is Chilkat, and he was your grandfather’s lap dog. A real cuddler. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the pack when you’re ready, but there are some things you need to understand. The admiral and I were full business partners, the lake house was part of the business, and you’re standing in my bedroom.”
The admiral’s granddaughter looked confused. “Do you mean to say that the two of you shared this house? You lived here together?”
“Even Steven.”
“Then…who lives in that other cabin?”
Hopeless. He’d known it would be. Who could understand the bond between himself and that irascible stiff-backed admiral who had scoffed at Jack’s plan to build a separate cabin for his own use, and then, when the cabin was complete, had suggested using it for a workshop. Who would understand that gruff old admiral was a lonely soul who liked sharing the lake house? Certainly not this young woman with the mahogany hair and the beautiful face which unfortunately seemed to be marred by a permanent and disapproving scowl.
“Nobody,” Jack said. “We use it for a workshop.”
She digested this as cheerfully as she had everything else. “And just how am I supposed to sell my grandfather’s half of this property while you’re living here and the place looks like a pigsty?”
Jack’s headache was getting worse with every beat of his heart, as was the day in general, or what was left of it. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed with a silent groan. “That sounds like a personal problem to me. Tell you what. If you’re that hard up for a quick buck, I’ll pay you a dollar if you make a pot of coffee for me,” he said. She was still brandishing the frying pan as though she’d like to whale him with it, and her nervous movements were making him dizzy and more than a little nauseous.
“This is not a joking matter,” she said.
“I’m not joking. I’ll pay you up front if you don’t believe me.” And then, as she began to erupt, he raised his hand. “Look, lady, like it or not, I own half of this house, half of the smaller cabin, half of a very mangy pack of sled dogs, half of the plane, half of the fishing lodge, and one half of each of those rusted-out trucks. Get used to it.” He gave her as challenging a stare as he could, given the circumstances. “The admiral and I were full business partners. I sank everything I had into it, and have no regrets except two. Your grandfather up and died on me, and he left his half of the business to you.”
Jack stood cautiously, holding onto the headboard. The room remained still. Good. If he could just get some fresh air, he’d be able to keep his stomach down. He reached for a clean undershirt. Rummaged in the bureau for a clean pair of socks, donned his favorite flannel shirt, and pulled on his boots. All the while she stood in the doorway, holding that big, greasy frying pan and watching him with the wary expression of a prison guard getting ready to move a dangerous prisoner into a maximum security cell.
“I’m sensing a streak of voyeurism in you, Ms. McCallum,” he observed as he picked his wallet off the bureau and removed a dollar. He held the coin out to her enticingly, but she clearly had no intentions of playing along. He sighed, stuffed it into his pocket, and looked around for Chilkat. “C’mon, dog,” he said. “She isn’t about to let you lick the pan.” Chilkat stood. “Chilkat can stay with me, at least for tonight. That’ll give you some time to settle in and take a reality check, but don’t think I’m hauling anchor permanently. I’ll be back tomorrow.” He glanced around, wincing. “Hope you’ll have the place cleaned up by then. Feel free to start with my room.”
“Where are you going?” Still frowning, still suspicious.
“I have a sweet-natured friend in Goose Bay. She’s always glad to see me, and she makes a great pot of coffee. I’ll save myself a buck and get a smile for a change.”
She had to turn sideways to let him out of the room, and he heard her footsteps following him down the stairs and out onto the porch. At the bottom of the porch steps he glanced back. She was watching him with that same wary stare and still gripping that damn frying pan. “Oh, and by the way,” he said. “The sled dogs’ll need to be fed pretty soon. We feed them twice a day, meat stew or frozen fish in the morning and a soupy kibble mix at night. Water morning and night. The feed’s kept in the small cabin out back, along with everything else you’ll need. There’s a list of the dogs’ names pinned to the door, and their names are on their dog houses, too. Follow the path behind the cabin. The dog yard’s just beyond the treeline, no more than a hundred yards from here. If you get lost, just listen. They howl like a pack of wolves.” He gave her legs one final appreciative stare. “I suggest you change your clothes before tackling that job.”
He turned and started for his truck, Chilkat trotting at his heels.
“Wait!” he heard her cry out as he reached for the door handle. Jack paused then turned. “You can’t leave without showing me how to take care of the dogs.” She was looking and sounding a tad distraught.
“Right now, I need a gallon of strong coffee and a sympathetic friend. The dogs probably won’t bite you as long as you put the frying pan down before you go into the dog yard. They don’t like being threatened any more than I do.”
The color in her cheeks deepened as she looked at the skillet, then back at him. “I’m sorry, but when I first arrived, I didn’t know who you were.” She waved her free hand about her head to drive off the mosquitoes. “I’ll make you a pot of coffee, Mr. Hanson, if you’ll just show me how to feed the dogs before you go. Please.”
Jack stood for a moment, considering her offer. “I dunno,” he said, rubbing his jaw. He thought for a few seconds just to make her suffer a bit more. “I’ll stay, but only if you promise to serve that joe with a pretty smile.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hanson. I’ll put the pot on.” She spun on her heel, still wearing that disapproving scowl and carrying the greasy frying pan. The screen door banged shut behind her.
He shook his head and glanced down at Chilkat, who never did get to lick the pan and so understood completely when he said, “No sense of humor.”
“THIS IS BANE,” Hanson said, speaking over the collective howls of twenty impressive-looking huskies less than thirty minutes later, having consumed an entire eight-cup pot of black coffee and looking marginally improved. “He’s an Inuit husky, like the others, only he’s considerably smarter than the rest. He was your grandfather’s lead dog. The admiral ran him up front with Belle, the dog next to him. Just remember, you can’t run Bane next to another male. He’ll kill him.”
“I believe it,” Senna said, keeping her distance from the thick-coated, yellow-eyed and very muscular sled dog. “And I have no intention of running any of them.” All of the huskies were behaving as if they would cheerfully tear each other apart if their stout chains didn’t keep them from doing so. “Are they always this aggressive?”
“Only when they’re awake. Here, I’ll show you how to scoop the food, and in what order the dogs should be fed,” he said, taking the heavy five-gallon bucket out of her hand. He held a one-quart ladle in the other, and he made a rapid circuit of the dog yard, emptying two buckets before he was done and making frequent asides as he bent over each food dish. “This is Tiny. A real hard worker for her size and a sweetheart, too, aren’t you, girl?” The small slender husky’s ears flattened back at his voice, her eyes gleaming with pleasure. “And this is the mighty Quinn. My lead dog. The best of the best, better than Bane, and he knows it, too. Look at him. He thinks the world’s his dog bone.”
Senna laughed in spite of herself as Jack filled Quinn’s dish and the sled dog dove in. “They sure like to eat.”
“These dogs likes to eat almost as much as they likes to fight,” he said with a touch of Granville’s rough Celtic brogue. He grinned at her for the first time and Senna felt an immediate whole-body response. “So. Think you can feed them by yourself tomorrow morning?” he asked as she struggled with an erratic heartbeat.
Senna shook her head, feeling the heat rush to her face. “No. I mean, tomorrow’s different. Mornings, the dogs get meat, right? I haven’t seen that yet. You’ll have to show me at least once, so I can get the hang of it.”
He picked up the empty buckets. “Okay. My friendly friend in Goose Bay awaits, but I’ll plan on being back here by 7:00 a.m.”
Senna followed him through the gate. The dog yard was completely enclosed by a seven-foot-tall wire fence to keep the dogs safe from the wolves, or so Jack had informed her. She closed and latched the gate behind her and had to practically trot to keep pace as he strode back down the path toward the lake and the house. “Look, it’s getting late,” she blurted, swatting at clouds of mosquitoes as they emerged into the open and lake water sparkled through the black spruce. “I’ll fix you another pot of coffee, if you like. We have lots to discuss. Business-related things. You could tell me something about my grandfather’s life here, all the things he did, and give me an idea of all the affairs I’ll need to straighten out before I leave. Maybe you should just stay….”
He acted as if she hadn’t spoken, kicking open the cabin door and setting the buckets on the floor by a deep laundry sink. The cabin brimmed with all the paraphernalia of an arctic expedition. Several dogsleds were suspended from the purlins, except for one which was on a work bench apparently having some maintenance done. Snowshoes, pack baskets, fly rods, two large canvas canoes, sacks of dry dog food, two big chest freezers, countless five-gallon buckets, shelves filled with tools and paint cans… Senna gazed about her in awe as Jack washed his hands at the laundry sink, wondering at this secret life of her grandfather’s.
“I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot. Maybe we should start over,” Senna began again as he reached for a towel. “I’m a very good cook….”
He leaned his rump against the sink as he dried his hands. That grin of his kick-started her heart again. “Is that so?” he said, his gaze holding hers a little too closely for comfort.
“I’ll fix supper for you,” she said, suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm. “You’ll feel much better with some food in your stomach.”
His grin broadened. He turned and hung the towel back up then went to one of the chest freezers and lifted the lid. “How are you with wild beasts?”
She moved to stand beside him and peer into the dim recesses. Half of the freezer seemed to be allocated to blocks of dog meat, the other to packages wrapped in freezer paper. She picked one up. “What kind of wild beasts?”
“The smaller packages are caribou. The larger are moose. Your choice. The cuts are written on the package.”
“I’ve never had caribou.”
“Have you ever tried moose?”
“I’m from Maine, Mr. Hanson. Of course I have.”
“If you liked moose, you’ll like caribou even better. And please don’t call me Mr. Hanson. Jack works just fine for me.”
Senna lowered her eyes. “How many packages?”
“Two if by caribou, one if by moose.”
Senna chose two of the caribou steaks. “Caribou it is, then, and whatever else might be in the kitchen.”
“No promises. Your grandfather was particular about his fare, but he didn’t eat much in his final weeks, and I haven’t paid much attention to the larder since he died. My guess is that the wake cleaned the cupboards out.” He gave her a quizzical look. “What day is it, anyway?”
“Tuesday,” Senna said, and then, wondering, asked, “What day did you have the wake?”
“It began Saturday afternoon, right after the service,” Jack said.
“Did many people attend?” Senna asked, curious as to what kind of friendships her grandfather had made in this faraway place.
“The church was packed. There were some hymns and singing, and the preacher said all the necessary words. Then John Snow Boy spoke. Too bad no one could understand what he was saying because I’m sure it was better than the preacher’s spiel.”
“Was he drunk, too?”
Jack uttered a short laugh. “John Snow Boy doesn’t drink, but he speaks English, Inuit and Innu fluently. Trouble is, he mixes them all up into his own language. We call it Innisht. Very colorful but way beyond interpretation. Afterward, there was a pot latch, that’s traditional in this neck of the woods, and then we all came here for the wake. Goody made sure all the kids were herded back home by midnight, and to tell the truth, I don’t remember much after that.”
Senna held the two icy packages of caribou and followed Jack as he left the cabin and headed toward the lake house. “Mr. Granville mentioned he had a sister named Goody.”
“Goody Stewart. Kindest soul that ever walked this earth. She lost her husband eight years ago, and then fell in love with your grandfather. Would’ve married him, if he’d only asked.” Jack never slowed as he spoke, just strode along in that big way of his that Senna was beginning to learn.
“Why didn’t he?” she asked, struggling to keep up as he climbed the porch stairs and opened the door.
“He said she deserved to be happy,” Jack replied, giving her the briefest of glances as he passed through the doorway and headed for the kitchen. He gave the room a quick three-sixty and shook his head. “By God, if Goody ever saw the place like this, she’d skin me alive. Those steaks should thaw quick enough if we put them in cold water. Meanwhile, I’ll take you out to the lake where we can begin discussing our new partnership.”
He held out his hand for the packages of caribou, sealed them up tightly in a plastic bag, then placed them in a large kettle of water on the countertop. Chilkat watched all of this with his intense wolfish expression but remained plastered to Jack’s side.
“There’s no partnership to discuss,” Senna said. “I’m selling my grandfather’s half of the business, and I have two weeks to get everything in order.”
“Two weeks,” Jack said. “That’s not much time, considering what you have to see and do. You’ll change your mind about selling the business when you see it. Bug juice.” He handed her a can of mosquito repellent as he headed for the door. “Be liberal with it.”
“What exactly is there to see?” Senna hurried after him, aware that her heart rate was way above normal. Undoubtedly she was stressed about this executor stuff, but she guessed that Jack Hanson’s insufferable arrogance might have a little bit to do with it, as well.
“You’ve met the dogs,” Jack narrated over his shoulder as he strode toward the dock, “you’ve seen the gear, the supplies, the houses. I’ll show you the plane, and maybe tomorrow, first thing, I’ll fly you out to the river to see the lodge. It’s accessible only by float plane or boat.” He was stepping onto the weather-bleached boards of the dock, and she was right on his heels.
“You’re a licensed pilot?”
“I’m legal, and I have the paperwork to prove it.”
“How far away are these places you want to show me?”
“Far enough so’s you’ll know you’re away from it all.” His eyes glinted with something akin to daring as he came to a halt and gestured to the plane tethered to the end of the dock. “The plane’s good to go, if you are.”
Senna teetered beside him as the dock rocked beneath her feet. She stared dubiously at the aircraft. “It looks ancient.”
“She’s a sweet old girl, a four-passenger Cessna 195. They don’t build ’em like this anymore,” he said, giving the bright-yellow wing that overhung the dock an affectionate slap, as if it were a favorite work horse.
“What year is it?”
“Nineteen fifty, sporting a Pratt and Whitney 985. Beautiful motor.”
“Dear God, that’s older than ancient. And my grandfather owns half of it?”
“The half that never breaks down,” he said with a grin. “So. What do you think of the view? This lake’s four miles across and forty miles long.”
Senna looked across the lake to the far shore. “It’s a big lake,” she said, thinking that this land was lonely and isolated and more than a little forbidding, yet compelling in a way that made her want to see much more of it. “A big land. Are there any towns out there?”
Jack squinted across the distance and nodded. “Standing on this dock we’re looking almost due north. About a thousand miles in that direction there’s a village called Kangiqsualuiuaq, on Ungava Bay. Across the Hudson Strait is Baffin Island, and there a few native settlements on that, as well.”
“You mean to say that the nearest town to our north is a thousand miles from here?”
“Could be a little closer as the crow flies,” Jack admitted. He grinned again at her expression. “Most folks up here follow the waterways, and they seldom run in a straight line. Ever read about the Hubbard expedition?”
Senna shook her head.
“Three men started out on this very same lake, trying to reach the George River and head north to Ungava Bay. Two of them made it back, but Hubbard starved to death.”
Senna gazed out across the vast wilderness. “Let me get this straight. We’re standing here on the edge of nowhere, but that wasn’t wild enough for my grandfather. He had to build a lodge even farther out?”
“For fishing,” Jack said, as if that were a reasonable explanation.
Senna gestured impatiently at the lake. “Are you saying there’s no fish here?”
“Oh, there’s damn good fishing here, but Goose Bay’s just a hop, skip and a jump away, and where there are towns, there are people. On a busy day you might see four or five boats from this very dock, and float planes droning around carrying sports from away. You know.”
Senna shook her head, bewildered. The lake was vast. Four or five hundred boats could have fished all day and never caught sight of each other. “I don’t get it. Was my grandfather a recluse?”
Jack rubbed a jaw that was dark with stubble. “Maybe,” he shrugged. “Hell, maybe we both were, maybe that’s why we got along so well. But first and foremost, he was a fisherman.”
“I never thought of him as anything but an admiral,” Senna confessed. “I can’t even picture him in casual clothing with a fishing pole in his hand.” She paused. “So, the lodge was a place my grandfather built so he could be completely isolated from other fishermen?”
“No. We built the lodge to run as a sporting camp for people who wanted a genuine wilderness fishing experience.”
Senna shook her head, increasingly baffled. “My grandfather wanted to run a sporting camp?”
“What’s so strange about that?”
“I happen to work in the hospitality industry,” Senna explained, “and I know that to be successful you have to make people feel warm and welcome. The admiral just didn’t have the ability to be warm and welcoming. In fact I found him to be quite scary and intimidating.”
Jack was studying her with eyes that sparkled with humor. “You might be surprised at how sociable he could be. Gruffly sociable, that is.”
“We weren’t very close,” Senna admitted as she shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. “We didn’t get along that well. In fact, I hadn’t seen him since my father’s funeral. No one in the family even knew where he went after my father’s death. He just disappeared. Never wrote, never answered any letters, never showed up for another Christmas.”
“That’s too bad. You missed out. Both of you did.” Jack turned on his heel and started back toward the house.
“Look, we need to talk about splitting up the business,” Senna said, hurrying after him. “Who’s going to want to buy half of an old plane?”
“That ‘old plane’ happens to be a valuable classic,” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, someone’ll pay a good chunk of change for her.”
“Maybe, but nobody would want to buy just half of a plane, no matter how valuable a classic it is.” Senna hurried after him. “Look, why don’t you buy out my grandfather’s half of the business? It makes perfect sense. You helped to build it. A bank would probably loan you the money, and…”
Jack stopped so abruptly she nearly ran into him. He rounded on her and a broad sweep of his arm took in the entire surrounds. “Lady, I love this place and I’d mortgage my soul to buy out the admiral’s share, but no bank would look twice at me.” He paused for a moment, his gaze keen, the breeze off the lake tousling his dark hair. “Why don’t you just keep your grandfather’s half of this business? Why are you so damn anxious to sell something he worked so hard to create?”
Senna felt the heat in her face. “I already have a career, Mr. Hanson, and it doesn’t involve Labrador.”
“No, it involves planning other people’s weddings. I got that part. But this place’ll grow on you, I guarantee it, and the fishing lodge will generate enough income to make you happy even if you’re an absentee business partner living and working in Maine.” He towered over her, his eyes intense. “We’re only two weeks away from opening. I have most of the help lined up, I just need to find another fishing guide or two. At least think about keeping your grandfather’s half. But know this,” he added. “If you decide to sell out, I’m not going to make it easy for you. I’ve worked my ass off to help make this place what it is. This is my future we’re talking about, not to mention your grandfather’s lifelong dream.”
Before Senna could respond, he wheeled and strode away, leaving her standing on the dock and staring after him. He walked the way a mountain lion would, with smoothly controlled grace and power…and a strong hint of sinuous swagger. Her heartbeat was erratic and she was having trouble catching her breath. Her inner voice warned, Watch out. He’s dangerous. Wild and unpredictable, just like that mountain lion. Dangerous he might be, and overbearing and conceited, but had a man ever looked so damned sexy in a pair of faded Levi’s and a flannel shirt?
Senna’s life, up until this very day, had been fairly steady, safe and predictable, but suddenly she found herself smack dab in the middle of a whole bunch of unknowns—and in spite of the dubious circumstances, she found herself looking forward to exploring them, even if it was just for two weeks.
CHAPTER THREE
BY THE TIME THE CARIBOU STEAKS had thawed in their cold-water bath, Senna had done a fairly competent job of cleaning the kitchen, a mandatory task before undertaking supper preparations. While she scrubbed and swept, Jack corralled the trash left behind in the aftermath of her grandfather’s wake. He filled four big trash bags with beer cans, bottles and other various and assorted rubbish. Senna regretted not having time to wash the windows, but there were two more weeks of tomorrows to get everything accomplished before she returned to Maine. She stood at the sink gazing out at the lake, the waters sparkling golden at sunset, shimmering like a vast molten ocean of fire. She spotted the dark silhouette of a pair of loons just beyond the dock and was watching them, hands submerged in hot soapy dish water, when Jack’s voice startled her from behind.
“Charles and Diana,” he said, looking over her shoulder. “They nest on an island not far from here, and every year they raise two or three chicks. Just about every night of the summer, the admiral would walk out on the dock, smoke his pipe, and listen to the two of them call back and forth.”
He was standing so near that when she turned her head to speak she almost hit her chin on his shoulder. Her heart thumped as she looked up at him. “Are we talking about the same man?”
“The one and only Admiral Stuart Anderson McCallum.”
“Charles and Diana?”
“You’re the wedding planner. You should get that part pretty easy.” He continued to stand so close that she could smell the warm scent of his skin, which was one-hundred-percent masculine. No aftershave or cologne for this down-to-earth woodsman.
“As I recall,” Senna commented, her hands still submerged in the dishpan, “Charles and Diana were divorced.”
“But the early days were like a fairy tale. C’mon, admit it. Every girl dreams of a royal courtship like that.”
“How would you know?” Senna said.
“My ex-wife was a big fan of Princess Diana.”
“Is that why you named the loons after the royal couple?”
“Your grandfather named them. He said the pair had a formal look to them, a kind of pomp and circumstance that befit a royal family. And the way those two talk to each other sometimes, it’s like they know all the tragedies the future holds for them.”
Senna looked back out the window, flustered by his nearness. “Maybe they do,” she said softly.
“Think I have time for a quick shower before supper?” Jack asked, leaning over the sink for a closer look at the loons and brushing his shoulder against hers. Accident? She doubted it. John Hanson possessed enough arrogance to keep ten men puffed up and strutting around like roosters.
“Yes, plenty,” Senna said, focusing on scrubbing a plate and breathing, two mundane tasks that had suddenly become extremely difficult. She wished he wouldn’t stand so close, and when she felt him move away and heard his footsteps climbing the stairs she glanced over her shoulder with a frown. Was he planning on making a pass at her tonight? After all, they’d be sleeping under the same roof and sharing the same living spaces for the next two weeks. He probably thought if he seduced her, he could change her mind about selling her half of the business…as if she’d ever allow that to happen!
Senna rinsed the plate and put it in the dish rack with a sudden twinge of guilt. She’d forgotten to call her mother. She’d promised to let her know the moment she arrived and now it was almost eight o’clock. She wiped her hands on the dish towel, retrieved her cell phone from the rental car and walked out onto the dock to give herself the best wide-open shot at reception before dialing. Nothing happened. No call went through. The little screen on the cell phone’s face said, “No Signal” and the tiny bar codes that indicated the signal strength didn’t even begin to register. She tried several more times before giving up.
Damn! She’d have to drive clear into North West River just to call her mother to let her know she was okay. She entered the house at the same time Jack was descending the stairs and they met head-on. “That was a mighty quick shower,” she said, taken aback by the suddenness of his appearance. He’d shaved, nicking himself in a couple of spots. His hair was damp and disheveled. He was wearing a reasonably clean set of clothes along the same lines as the original—jeans, undershirt with a flannel shirt pulled over, unbuttoned down the front and sleeves rolled back He looked virile and disturbingly handsome.
“Mighty quick and mighty cold,” he agreed amiably. “You used up every last drop of hot water cleaning the kitchen.”
“Oh!” Senna felt her cheeks burn. “I’m sorry….”
“Don’t be. The kitchen looks great.” He glanced at the cell phone she held. “Were you trying to call someone?”
“Yes,” Senna said. She kept recalling the heart-stopping sight of that mountain lion she’d seen, that wild, powerful symbol of strength and grace that reminded her so much of Jack Hanson.
“Why not use the house phone?” Jack asked, one eyebrow raised. “You’ll get a helluva lot better reception. Cell phones don’t work here. No towers.”
“I didn’t know there was a regular phone.”
“In the living room on the end table.”
“If there’s a phone, where are the phone lines? I saw no telephone poles for the last half mile of road.”
“Underground cable. The admiral didn’t like the idea of wires strung everywhere. The electric and phone cable was expensive, but considering the wild storms we get up here on the Labrador, it was a good idea.”
“I see.” Senna stared at him for a moment more, unable to help herself. He possessed an animal magnetism that was stronger than anything she’d ever encountered. “Supper will be a little late. I’ll get started right after this phone call.”
He nodded, brushing past her on his way to the kitchen. He smelled faintly of soap, and the residual scents of wood smoke and mosquito repellent that clung to his clothing. He smelled good.
Senna wandered into the living room, the next room on her cleaning agenda. It was a masculine room whose focal point was a big stone fireplace flanked by deep bookshelves. The wall of large windows overlooked the lake, and the comfortable rustic furnishings were well suited to the lake house’s character. She located the phone and sank down on the couch, tucking her legs beneath her as she lifted the receiver. Moments later she was speaking to her mother, who was anxious to hear about everything. Senna heard the screen door bang and craned to look out the window. She spied Jack walking out toward the dock, Chilkat by his side. Good. He wouldn’t overhear.
She abruptly interrupted their staid conversation about legal matters and as quickly as she could she filled her mother in on the true state of her grandfather’s Labrador affairs. “This is going to be much more complicated than I expected, given the fact that everything was co-owned in a full business partnership,” Senna concluded. “Tomorrow Jack’s flying me out to see the lodge. I only hope it’s in good repair and won’t take too long to sell.”
“What’s he like?” her mother asked.
“Jack? Oh, he’s okay, I guess, a little younger than I expected….”
“Why doesn’t he just buy out your grandfather’s half of the business?”
“He told me the banks wouldn’t look twice at him.”
“You hardly know this man, Senna. Do you think he’s safe to fly with?”
“Mom, don’t worry. I have a feeling he’s a very good pilot. I’ll call you tomorrow night. Right now I have to get supper started. I promised I’d cook if he showed me how to tend the sled dogs.”
“Sled dogs?”
“Huskies. The real thing. Twenty of them.”
“Goodness. Senna, Tim called. He tried to reach you at your apartment and got worried when he couldn’t. I told him about your grandfather dying and that you had to go to Labrador. He sounds pretty down.”
“I’ll call him. Bye, Mom. Love you.” Senna sat for a moment after hanging up and then dialed Tim’s number, peering out the window once again while the call went through. Jack was doing something with the airplane. The door was open and he was inside. Good, twice over. She especially didn’t want him to hear this conversation.
Tim answered on the third ring. “I’m sorry I bothered your mother, but I was worried,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. My grandfather’s death was unexpected and he named me as his executor. I’ll probably be here for two weeks settling his estate. It’s very beautiful and remote country.”
“I can imagine,” he commented. “They probably still travel by dog team there.” After an awkward pause, he said, “How’s everything going?”
“As well as can be expected. My grandfather owned half shares in a business that includes a lake house, a fishing lodge and an airplane, which complicates things. Somehow I have to find a buyer for his shares. How are things with you?”
“Okay. I landed that big account I’ve been working on. Ameri-Dyne. You know, the huge dental practice off Forest Ave.”
“Wow, that’s great news, Tim,” she said. “Congratulations. I know how hard you’ve been working for that.” Senna caught a flash of movement outside the window and saw Jack and Chilkat walking toward the house. “Tim? I have to go. I have a meeting with my grandfather’s business partner.”
“I miss you, Senna. Let me know if you need anything at all,” he said, sounding forlorn.
“I will,” she promised.
Senna was sick with guilt as she attacked supper preparations in the kitchen. Sooner or later Tim would realize that their relationship was over. But that didn’t ease the pain he was feeling now, and she was the cause of it. He adored her. Was she wrong to break things off? Why couldn’t she love him the way he loved her? Senna gave herself a mental shake. This was no time to be dwelling on her relationship with Tim. She had a meal to prepare. Caribou steaks, russet potatoes scrounged from a musty sack of sprouting spuds she found in a lower cupboard, and canned corn. In the refrigerator she unearthed two sticks of butter, several fist-sized chunks of mold that might once have been vegetables, endless half-empty jars of condiments and a container of very sour milk. This wouldn’t pass for a gourmet meal by any standards, but Senna realized as she slipped the scrubbed potatoes into the oven that such standards no longer mattered. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was ravenous.
By the time Jack wandered into the house, carrying what looked like a shapeless snarl of nylon webbing, things were reasonably under control. “It’ll be another forty-five minutes,” she called out as he dropped into a chair in the living room, the webbing in his lap, and began threading a large curved needle from a spool of dental floss. “I hope you can wait that long.”
“That’s just about right,” he replied, concentrating as he drew the floss through the needle. “Mending these harnesses will probably take that long or better.” He picked up a piece of webbing that had been chewed in half and lit a match to melt the ragged ends before beginning to stitch the harness back together. “So,” he said, jabbing the needle into the thick webbing. “Have you given any thought to keeping your share of the business?”
Senna moved toward the living room, crossed her arms in front of her and leaned against the door frame. “No. I mean, yes, I have, but no, I don’t want to own half of a fishing lodge, thank you very much. Don’t you have a friend or relative who might be interested in buying my grandfather’s share?”
“Nope.” He drew the floss through the harness, pulled the thread tight and cast a brief glance in her direction. “There aren’t that many people out there as crazy as the admiral and me. What about your brothers? You have two of them, don’t you?”
“Yes. Billy’s a computer programmer for a large engineering firm in Boston, and Bryce is a market analyst living in New York City.”
“Do they fish?”
“No, nor are they or their wives particularly outdoorsy.”
His shoulders slumped. “That explains it, then.”
“Explains what?”
“Why the admiral named you as his executor. You were his last great hope.”
Senna felt a flush of anger heat her blood. “Are you certain the banks won’t loan you the money?”
“I’ve already looked into it. Even if the bank appraisal came in high enough, there’s no surety there. I don’t have a steady job, and the fishing lodge hasn’t generated any income yet. I’d have to have a co-signor to get any sort of mortgage, and I can’t think of a soul on earth who’d be crazy enough to co-sign a loan for me.” He paused for a moment, needle poised in mid-air, eyes fixed on a point somewhere between Senna and Baffin Island, then shook his head in a gesture of defeat and returned his attention to mending the harness.
“Why did my grandfather keep sled dogs?” Senna asked, abruptly changing the subject to avoid further jabs from Hanson.
“He liked them. He met a trapper from a village near Mud Lake who was selling his team. The admiral bought the dogs, the komatik and a bunch of traps. He decided he was going to make some money on furs.”
Senna felt a twist of revulsion as she pictured the pained and frightened creatures caught in the steel leg-hold traps. “I think trapping’s cruel and awful and ought to be outlawed.”
Jack uttered a short laugh. “So did he, after about a month of it. It was brutal work. The snow here is so damn deep and unpackable that the dogs had to swim through it hauling that heavy sled. The admiral would try to break the trail on snowshoes, but he couldn’t keep ahead of the team. The leaders would run up on the tails of his shoes and he’d pitch head first into the snow. So he recruited me as his trail breaker, but my trapping career spanned less than a day. I tell you what, it’s not easy getting out of deep snow when you fall facefirst into it. A couple of times I was sure I was going to suffocate.”
“Did my grandfather ever catch anything?”
“Pneumonia, after one particularly grueling night out. Then he ran into some folks who were touring on snowmobiles. They asked if they could have a ride on the dogsled, so the admiral gave them a ride. They gave him a couple of hundred bucks for his efforts, and that was the end of his trapping adventures. He sold the traps, advertised dogsled rides at the airport and in some local stores at Goose Bay and pretty soon the phone began to ring. That’s why he kept the dogs.” Jack paused with a faint grin. “Well, that’s not the entire reason. He kept them because he came to love them, and believe it or not, that brutish pack felt the same way about him.”
Senna tried to picture the admiral mushing a team of huskies down an arctic trail, clad in mukluks and a fur parka, but she couldn’t. Nor could she imagine him stroking the head of a dog with genuine affection. It was as if Jack were talking about a complete stranger. She was beginning to realize just how little she knew about her own grandfather. “Are there any pictures?”
Jack paused. “Goody has some, I think, and I have a few. Mostly fishing pictures, a few winter shots of the dog teams. The pictures your grandfather took were of wildlife. Wolves, in particular. He was fascinated by them. But if you want mushing pictures, you’ll have to dig through his papers. The admiral must have stashed some here, somewhere, probably in his desk. That’s where he kept all the important stuff. He did his writing there, too.”
“Writing?” Yet another surprise.
“He kept a journal,” Jack said, concentrating on his stitching. “He wrote in long hand into a spiral notebook every night.”
Senna imagined that the entries would be terse and to the point. Rained today. Worked on chimney. Beans for supper. That sort of thing. Still, maybe she’d get lucky. Maybe he’d bared his soul and explained why the heck he’d named her as his executor. She would read his journal when she found it, every last word. But what was she supposed to do with all his personal belongings, his clothes, the pictures on the walls. Have a yard sale? That seemed so callous, so unfeeling. Maybe an open house would be a better idea, inviting all the admiral’s friends to choose what they might want after Jack had taken what he wanted. She should, after all, give her grandfather’s business partner and closest friend first dibs.
Odd that the admiral hadn’t left anything to Jack. He could have given him his half of the business and made Senna’s job much easier, but all he’d written in his will, in neat, black ink, were two sentences. The first sentence stated, To my granddaughter, Senna McCallum, I leave all my worldly goods for her to dispose of as she sees fit. And the second; To my business partner and friend, John William Hanson, I bequeath memories of many good times shared, and hopes for even better times in the future.
How odd that he would trust her to dispose of his worldly goods as she saw fit. The admiral hadn’t thought anything she’d done to be “fit” in her entire life. As Senna pondered the relative whose blood ran through her veins, a bitter memory surfaced, one that illustrated the relationship she and her grandfather had shared. Tim had accompanied her to her father’s funeral. They’d only just begun dating and he was sweet to be so supportive during that terrible time, but her grandfather hadn’t missed the opportunity to take her aside during the family gathering held afterward at her mother’s house. “I certainly hope you’re not planning to marry that one,” he’d said in his stern and judgmental way.
“He was kind of religious about it,” Jack said, startling her back to the present.
“About what?” Senna asked.
“Writing in his journal. He’d spend an hour or so at that desk every night.” Jack had stopped stitching the harness as he spoke and was gazing across the room at the admiral’s desk as if he were seeing the old man sitting there, writing, or pacing in front of the window, smoking his pipe. “He never said much about his life, and I never asked, but I have a feeling it’s all there, in that journal.”
Senna straightened, glanced over at the massive old desk, and moved toward it. There were three deep drawers on either side and she opened the top left hand one, spying a book, but not a spiral notebook. She lifted the leather-bound ledger, embossed with gold lettering across the front: Wolf River Lodge, with a logo of a howling wolf engraved beneath it. She laid the ledger on the desk and opened it. It was a reservation book for the fishing lodge. She flipped through the empty pages until she reached the month of June and then she paused. From the last week in June on, there were names written into six of the spaces for each and every day.
She turned the pages into July and August, swiftly scanning the names, the phone numbers jotted next to them, the addresses scribbled below. People from all over the United States. People from England and France and Germany. One party from Australia was booked for three weeks solid. The bookings petered out in September, and then from November on there were occasional reservations. She supposed that was for the dogsledding, but she wasn’t sure. She closed the book and stood with her hand atop it for a moment, then picked it up and moved to where Jack worked on the harnesses.
“You said the lodge wasn’t ready yet?”
He glanced up, saw that she held the reservation book, and shook his head. “Not quite, but the majority of the work is done, there’s just a bunch of small stuff left, and about a ton of supplies to be flown in.”
“Some of these guests are scheduled to arrive just two weeks from now….”
“I know.” A look of pride crossed his face. “We’re practically booked for the summer.”
“Now that the admiral’s dead, how’s that going to work, exactly?”
“I’ll get the hired help in there right away to get the lodge ready, get the rest of the provisions flown in, find another fishing guide or two, and give ’er hell all summer long. At least, that’s the plan.”
“What if you’re not ready in time?”
“We will be.”
“Are all these reservations pretty firm?”
“They’ve all paid a deposit, and the deadline’s past for them to cancel. Don’t worry, they’ll show.”
“How much of a deposit did they pay?” Senna asked.
“Half of their stay. A lot of money.” He paused again as if considering his words carefully. “Actually, it’s a damn good thing nobody canceled, because we used all of those advance deposits to finish building the lodge.”
“I see,” she said, standing and cradling the leather reservation book against her chest. “So there is absolutely no buffer in the bank account?”
“No. Matter of fact, the business account is dead empty. The admiral’s life insurance will no doubt cover his cremation fees and legal expenses and some of his medical bills, and maybe it’ll help a lot more than that, but I had to borrow money for the wake. Goody said I could pay her back at the end of the summer.”
“Assuming you go ahead with the start-up, what were you planning to buy the food with, and how are you going to pay the help for the three weeks until the first guests depart and settle up for the balance of what they owe when they do?” Senna asked, steeling herself for the answer.
He hesitated, then jabbed the needle into the webbing again. “I was kind of hoping you’d help out,” he said, talking to the harness to avoid meeting her eyes. “I mean, we’re business partners now, for better or for worse.”
“It’s definitely for worse, and very temporary.” Senna walked back to the desk, returned the ledger to the top drawer and drew a deep breath. She wondered how she was going to juggle this latest bombshell. Was she going to have to use her entire life savings to bail her grandfather’s business out of the red? Might as well beard the giant and find out. “Exactly how much money are we talking about?” she said.
Jack didn’t hesitate. He’d obviously already figured things out. “The way I figure it, including the food and provisions, the diesel fuel for the generator, gas for the boats and the plane, insurance, wages for the employees…maybe ten thousand?”
Senna straightened her spine, raised her chin and drew a steadying breath. “Ten thousand dollars. A mere pittance. Well, I suppose I should start cooking those caribou steaks,” she said, and marched into the kitchen.
JACK LISTENED TO THE SOUNDS of domestic industry coming from the kitchen and set the mended harness aside, pushing to his feet and pacing to the window with the restlessness of a wolf. Although he’d known her scarcely six hours, he sensed that Senna McCallum had the power to destroy him. She was definitely a strong woman. The way she’d just handled that news about the business needing a financial boost had been admirable. She hadn’t batted an eyelash when he told her how much the business needed to get going, and now she was in the kitchen, calmly and considerately cooking supper for him. Clearly she was level-headed and sensible enough to realize that the lodge was worth saving. He only hoped she had enough of a nest egg in the bank to help out.
He returned to his seat and for a few quiet minutes continued stitching up harnesses and then flinched as he heard a series of loud bangs and crashes from the kitchen. The sound of the frying pan hitting the stovetop. The clatter of silverware being flung on the table. Plates hitting the counter hard enough to shatter them. He heard her muttering to herself in angry undertones, and then, very clearly, she said, “You, dog, get out of this kitchen. Go on, I won’t have you sitting there drooling while I cook!”
Chilkat skulked into the living room, casting an offended glance over his shoulder as he did. Just as Jack was about to effect his own escape from the lake house, Senna stalked into the room, brandishing a knife in one hand.
“You really expect me to clean out my savings account to float the start-up of a fishing lodge I have absolutely no interest in?”
“You own a half interest, so the way I see it, you should be at least halfway interested,” Jack corrected. “The only other alternative we have is not to open, and that’ll set you back a whole lot more because then we’d have to refund the advance deposits.”
“Which total exactly how much, dare I ask?”
“Oh, somewhere in the vicinity of thirty thousand dollars, give or take a few thousand.”
“I see.” She whirled around and stalked back into the kitchen. He heard the loud hiss as the caribou steaks hit the hot frying pan. Jack turned once again toward the door, gesturing silently to the dog, but before he could take two steps, she reappeared.
“I think it’s cowardly of you not to have mentioned these financial problems before now,” she said, waving the knife around for emphasis. “What if I don’t have ten thousand dollars?”
“Then we’d better hope the fishing’s good and all of our guests are fish eaters.”
“There are a million details in a start-up operation. You quoted ten grand, but it’ll probably be closer to twice that amount, though I won’t know until I see your set-up. How many guests can you take at a time?”
“The lodge has six guest rooms with two double beds each and can accommodate twelve comfortably, but we’d need more guides to operate at full capacity. By law, there has to be one fishing guide for every two clients.”
“How many employees?”
“Four. A housekeeper, a cook and two guides. Three guides, if I can hire another. Four would be even better.”
“Plus you. That’s seventeen or eighteen people eating three meals a day, seven days a week.”
“That’s about what I figured,” Jack said, nodding.
She spun and returned to the kitchen. More angry noises. Jack gave up on trying to escape. He knew he wouldn’t have time. Sure enough, she burst into the room again, eyes flashing. “And just how long do you think one cook is going to last with no helper and all those meals to prepare and no days off?”
“It’s a short season, barely two, two and a half months. The cook’ll last, and that time will pass in the blink of an eye.” Jack snapped his fingers to emphasize just how fast summers flew by in Labrador. “You might even consider staying on yourself and pitching in. Think of it,” he continued, forging boldly onward in spite of her ominous expression. “In just twelve weeks time, you could easily double or triple what you’d get for your grandfather’s half of the business. You saw the reservation book. We’re going to be busy as hell. By summer’s end, you won’t have any trouble at all getting rid of your shares. It’d be worth your while to wait, and who knows? You might even enjoy spending the summer here and decide not to sell.”
Senna regarded him as if he were crazy and shook her head. “I couldn’t get the time off even if I wanted to take it, which I can assure you I don’t.”
“Then I guess you’ll just have to trust me enough to open the lodge and run it. We should be able to clear enough money after two months to keep the bank from foreclosing.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why would the bank foreclose? Is there a mortgage?”
“Construction loan. We’re four months in arrears of making payments on it. The admiral’s medical bills were pretty steep and the insurance payments take forever to come, so we had no choice but to take out a—”
“How big a construction loan?” Her voice was way too quiet.
“Forty thousand,” Jack said, tensing for the explosion, “but we have a three-year pay-back period and a good interest rate.”
Her expression never changed. She just stood for several moments with her hands on her hips, still as a statue. “Now would probably be a really good time for you to tell me you studied hotel management at Cornell,” she said in that same ominously quiet voice, “or graduated top of your class from Johnson and Wales.”
Jack glanced over her shoulder toward the kitchen, detecting a whiff of something burning. “Now would probably be an even better time for you to turn those caribou steaks.”
SENNA OVERCOOKED THE CARIBOU and the baked potatoes were equally dry, but the canned corn was heated to perfection. Conversation at the table was limited to such requests as “please pass the salt, the pepper or the butter.” Cutlery scraped on ironstone. Chewing was conducted with matching scowls of intense concentration. Chilkat appeared to be the only attendee enjoying the supper from his hiding place beneath the kitchen table, where, believing he was unobserved, Jack would slip him the toughest pieces of meat. Senna finished what she could and then laid her silverware across her plate. “I’m sorry about the meal.”
“It was great,” Jack said, as if he really meant it. At least he had the good manners to pretend.
Senna dabbed her mouth with a paper towel and cleared her throat. “There is another option for us to consider as far as this partnership goes.” She crumpled the paper towel in her hand and met his wary gaze. “We could have the entire business appraised right down to its individual components. Airplane, fishing lodge, this house, the trucks, the dogs and gear, the workshop. Then we’d divvy it up in such a way that’s fair. That way nothing will be shared jointly, I’ll be able to sell my half much faster and easier, and you’ll own your portion outright. No partner for you to have to deal with. I’ll even give you my half of the plane.”
His response was a firm and immediate “No.”
“You might at least consider it.”
Jack leaned back in his chair with a shake of his head. “Not a happening thing. This place stays just the way the admiral wanted it to be. It doesn’t get hacked to pieces just because you want to run back to Maine with a quick chunk of change. I warned you I wouldn’t make this easy for you, and I won’t. A man’s lifelong dream isn’t just something you try to dispose of in two weeks, even if he is dead. And you might at least consider seeing what he created before you decide you want to get rid of your half.”
“I could petition for partition and force you to divide the property or agree to sell it in its entirety and split the money,” she challenged. “The courts would rule in my favor, especially if they could see the mess you made of this place.”
“The mess you stumbled into was a result of the wake we just held,” he said, rocking forward in his chair and leaning toward her. “And as far as bringing this to court, I’ll fight you tooth and nail. I might not win. Hell, I probably won’t, but I’ll fight you to the bitter end.”
Senna felt her cheeks flush. “Mr. Hanson, I’m not trying to be heartless or greedy. I’m sorry the admiral’s dead, and I’m sorry the two of you didn’t get a chance to run the lodge together after all the work you put into it, but that’s not my fault. I’m just trying to make this as easy as possible for the both of us. Besides, you have no idea what kind of person might buy my half of the business. Maybe you wouldn’t get along. What could be worse than running a fishing lodge you love with someone you hate?” Senna could tell by the look on his face that he wouldn’t be swayed. She heaved a sigh of frustration. “What time are you thinking of leaving tomorrow morning?”
He gave her another wary look. “Leaving?”
“Flying me to see this lodge you plan to turn into a gold mine.”
His expression cleared. “Sun-up.”
“What time does that happen at this latitude?”
“When the sun comes over the eastern end of the lake.” His grin was so unexpected and contagious that in spite of her disgruntled mood Senna very nearly returned it. “You’ll love the place when you see it, guaranteed. You won’t want to sell out, and you won’t want to leave. Better pack your overnight bag.”
“I’ll be ready at sun-up,” she said, rising to her feet and gathering up her plate. “But please understand that I have no intentions of spending the night there, or going into business with you on anything more than an extremely temporary basis.”
Jack’s expression became stony as he matched her cool stare with his own. “I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything different from a wedding planner,” he replied with a dismissive shrug. He pushed out of his chair and left the kitchen before Senna could hurl the plate at him, which was nothing less than his rude and insulting behavior deserved, but if he had been intending to leave the lake house, his escape was cut off by another arrival.
The front door opened even as he was reaching for the door knob and Senna was startled to see a young and somewhat bedraggled-looking boy in his early teens with black, shoulder-length hair standing in the darkened doorway. He wore clothing that looked as if were made of old canvas, and there was a faded red bandana wrapped around his head.
“Good to see you, Charlie,” Jack said. “C’mon in and meet Senna McCallum, the admiral’s granddaughter. You know. The wedding planner. Senna, this is Charlie Blake. I forgot to tell you that Charlie almost always eats supper here. He helps out around the place when he can. Likes working with the huskies.”
“Hello, Charlie,” Senna said, still holding her plate and struggling to control her temper.
The boy gave Senna a brief, inscrutable stare, then held out a book he was carrying. “Finished,” he said.
“Good,” Jack said, retrieving it. “How’d you like it?”
“I liked the part when Captain Ahab got tangled up, and the great white whale dragged him down,” the boy said, solemn-faced.
“Best part of Moby Dick,” Jack agreed.
“It’s nice to meet you, Charlie,” Senna managed after this brief interchange. “Sit down and I’ll get you some supper.”
She began cleaning up the kitchen while Charlie ate and carried on a sporadic conversation with Jack. He began with the book he’d just read, continued with one-sentence subjects she couldn’t quite grasp, and peppered his conversation with words she’d never heard before. By the time she’d finished wiping down the counters, Charlie was getting ready to sack out on the couch. This was apparently also the norm, as he knew exactly where to find two blankets and a pillow stashed inside an old sea chest which also served as the coffee table. A small, black fox-like dog had appeared out of the blue arctic twilight to settle down with him, behaving as though it had been born and raised in that very living room.
Senna hung the dishrag and towel behind the wood stove to dry and took Jack aside before heading upstairs for the night. “Just out of curiosity, is there anyone else who might show up to spend the night?”
“Nope. Just Charlie. But unless you want Chilkat on your bed, better keep your door closed. That damn dog takes up most of the mattress. You’d better go up now. I don’t know what time morning comes in Maine, but in Labrador it comes really, really early.”
“Don’t worry,” Senna said, turning her back on him and starting up the stairs. “I’m an early riser. You won’t be needing to roust me out of bed.”
“Too bad. That might be kinda fun,” he called after her. Senna ignored his parting shot and took asylum in her grandfather’s room, closing the door behind her. She leaned against it for a moment, pondering the wisdom of sleeping under the same roof as that brash and arrogant man. His bedroom was just across the hall, and her door didn’t have a lock. Well, if he tried anything with her, he’d be sorry. Those three years of karate classes she’d taken in college would come in handy.
As long as the day had been, and as tired as she was, Senna wasn’t ready for sleep. She stood in the middle of her grandfather’s room, surrounded by his personal belongings, and tried to feel some sort of connection. Strangely, none of his things reflected his lifelong naval career. There were several pieces of vintage carved scrimshaw atop his bureau, a stack of old books, including several regional histories of arctic exploration and the Hudson’s Bay Company, a harmonica that looked well used, a beautiful meerschaum pipe, several old buttons that appeared to have been carved out of bone in a pewter salt, a rifle propped behind the door, a box of excellent wildlife photographs, mostly of wolves and caribou, and a pair of well-worn mitts and matching mukluks made out of some kind of fur and hide and decorated with elaborate beadwork. Being surrounded by her grandfather’s things was like being in a museum.
She touched each item, pondering the life of a man she hadn’t known at all, full of questions that could never be answered, and most of all, full of regrets. She was disappointed that she hadn’t yet stumbled across his journal. When she did, she hoped she would learn more about the enigma who was her grandfather, and why he had named her as his executor. At length she went to the window and looked out at the lake, its silken black waters reflecting the pale sliver of a new moon in a sky that wouldn’t know true darkness again until the far side of summer. The cove was as still as a mirror. She leaned her elbows on the windowsill and contemplated the vastness of the wilderness beyond the panes of glass, feeling a sudden pang of nostalgia for the two brief years she’d spent in the field as a wildlife biologist, fresh out of college and full of enthusiasm, truly believing she could make a difference.
A day didn’t go by that she didn’t miss tramping through the Maine woods with a pair of binoculars and a notebook. She’d particularly enjoyed the time spent checking on the radio-collared female bears in their winter dens, gathering data and counting cubs. Bears and coyotes had become her favorite animals to observe, and ravens her favorite birds. The difference she had hoped to make in educating the public about the coyotes’ place in the ecosystem never came to pass. The deer-hunters’ hatred for that little brother of the wolf was far too deep-seated. If wolves kill a moose in Alaska, or coyotes kill a deer in Maine, these were sins committed by predators that humans had little tolerance for. They shot the wolves from airplanes and wanted to snare the coyotes. That these predators helped the moose and deer population remain healthy by culling out the weak, old and the sick was a foreign and unwelcome concept. The only difference Senna had made in the department was purely statistical. For a brief period of time, she was their token woman field biologist.
Working for her aunt at the inn gave her an income far higher than that of her entry-level biologist’s wage at the state, but it didn’t come close to fulfilling her passion for wildlife and wild places. Here in Labrador she was sensing ever more acutely everything that she’d missed for the past five years.
Senna heard a faint rustling sound outside her door and opened it to see Chilkat waiting there expectantly. He stood and nosed his way into the room. Senna hesitated for a moment, listening to the murmur of voices from below. She closed her door again, quietly, then braced the chair beneath the door knob, just in case Hanson got any funny ideas in the middle of the night.
Meanwhile, the big husky leapt onto the bed with the grace of an athlete, curled up dead center, heaved a big sigh of contentment, and closed his eyes.
“Very well, then,” Senna relented with a sigh of her own, opening her bag and rummaging within for her pajamas, “but you’re going to have to share.”
CHAPTER FOUR
EARLY MORNING, AND THE KITCHEN was cold enough to warrant kindling a fire in the woodstove. Jack wished there were bacon. He had a hankering to slice it into the frying pan, smell the fragrant hickory smoke and hear the fat sizzle. He searched the refrigerator twice before giving up. Yawning, he emptied the last of the stale coffee from the can into the pot and thought about all the mornings when the admiral had come down the stairs into the kitchen tamping tobacco into his pipe, reaching for his chipped mug and filling it to the rim. “Lots to do today,” he’d growl. “Long row to hoe.”
The admiral was used to being first man up. The fact that Jack had him beat every morning had been a bone of contention at first, but eventually the old man had come to enjoy the luxury of coming down to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Always said the same thing. “Lots to do today. Long row to hoe.” Then he’d drink his coffee and smoke his pipe and plan the day.
Jack missed the old man. He wondered if anyone would miss him half as much if he dropped dead. Doubted it. Well, maybe Charlie, and the huskies out in the dog yard. For a little while, anyway. Time was a river that washed a person away. Memories faded, became dilute. The day would come when he wouldn’t be able to picture the admiral’s face or the way he’d smoked his pipe or paddled a canoe. Made him wonder about Senna. Why had the two of them been at such odds? Damn shame. They could’ve shared a lot, but it was too late now.
The coffee smelled good. Boiling now, perking along smartly and picking up speed. Let ’er rip. Charlie snored softly on the couch, the crackie stretched out alongside him, awake and watching. Always watching, that dog was. Her eyes never closed. Jack shut off the propane burner under the coffeepot and poured himself a cup, carrying it with him out onto the porch. He stood in his stocking feet, breath pluming into the frigid air. June, and the thermometer stood at thirty-two degrees. Not exactly gardening weather, but crisp and wonderful and completely free of mosquitoes. He stood in silence, watching smoke rise from the surface of the lake, watching the sky pale to the east and the stars slowly fade as he drank his first cup of the morning. He heard a noise behind him and turned, seeing movement through the open door.
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