Fugitive Hearts. Ingrid Weaver
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John was simply trying to make conversation, something she should be pleased about. “Derek wouldn’t let a little detail like a raging blizzard interfere with his plans. He loves this place.”
He nodded, and the stubborn lock of hair that she had noticed before flopped endearingly over his forehead.
“I do, too,” she continued, as if to make up for her evasive reply. “In exchange for free rent, all I have to do is make sure the pipes don’t freeze in the main lodge and keep the snow from collapsing the roof, which isn’t much trouble since the roof was designed to be steep enough for the snow to slide off.”
“Yeah, I know—” there was a split-second pause “—I noticed that.” His gaze moved over the room, then settled on her desk. “What kind of work do you do, Dana?”
“I’m an author.”
His eyebrows rose.
She picked up the page she had been working on—or trying to work on—and held it for him to see. “I write children’s books. I illustrate them, too. This is for my current project.”
His gaze sharpened as he focused on her unfinished drawing. He leaned forward, his expression lighting up with interest. It was the first sign of animation he had shown all day. “That looks like…”
“Morty,” she finished for him. “He earns his keep by serving as my model. I’m trying to deduct the cost of his cat food from my income tax, but so far I haven’t had any luck.”
He transferred the cat from his lap to the couch beside him and rose to his feet. Moving carefully, his steps still wobbly, he crossed the floor to take the drawing from her hand. “Morty. Is that short for Mortimer?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. How did you guess?”
He was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was laced with humor. “It wasn’t a guess. That cat has to be Mortimer Q. Morganbrood.”
She started in surprise. “You recognize him?”
He grinned. “Hell, yes, I recognize him. My daughter’s crazy about that cat.”
Had she thought his rebellious hair was endearing? That was before she had seen his grin. It was as sudden and unexpected as a burst of sunlight from a storm cloud. And it zinged right through her caution to twang something in Dana’s heart. “You have a daughter?”
He hesitated. His grin wavered, then softened to a smile as he sighed. “Chantal,” he said finally. “She’s almost five, and she has every one of the Mortimer books.”
Dana forced herself to look away from his way-too-appealing mouth so she could concentrate on what he was saying. He looked like a different man when he smiled. She had the feeling he didn’t do it often. “Really?”
“Really,” he confirmed. “Starting with Mortimer Ropes the Moon.” He tilted his head. “Dana. You’re D. J. Whittington?”
“Yes. Janelle’s my middle name.”
“Funny. I had thought you looked familiar, and now I see why. But the photo on your books doesn’t do you justice.”
She had heard that before. She knew the photo wasn’t flattering, but her sister had taken it, and she hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings by asking for another. “My, uh, hair was shorter then.”
“Even if I hadn’t seen your photo, I should have recognized your name.”
“It’s not all that well-known.”
“In our house it is.” He studied the drawing again. “You said this is your current project. Is it for a new book?”
“Yes. Mortimer and the Pirate Mice. It’s scheduled to be published this summer.”
“That will make Chantal happy.”
“I hope so.” She made a wry face. “Assuming, of course, I get the thing done.”
“Are you having problems?”
“No, just the usual. I procrastinate until I’m so close to my deadline that I have no choice but to work.”
“Now I understand why you wanted to hole up here where there aren’t any distractions. You’re trying to finish your book.”
“Exactly. It’s my own private isolation chamber.”
“This is unbelievable,” he said. “I read a lot of stories to my daughter, but yours are her favorites.”
“Thank you.”
“They’re my favorites, too. They haven’t put me to sleep yet.”
She laughed. “Good. I try to keep in mind the adults who will be doing the reading.”
“It shows.”
Usually, she could take praise in stride as matter-of-factly as she took criticism, yet John’s compliments were igniting a warm glow in her cheeks. Or was it his nearness that was responsible? “You said that Chantal is almost five?” she asked, steering the subject away from herself. “What’s she like?”
“Sweet when she wants to be, impulsive sometimes and smart as a whip.” His voice rang with the unmistakable pride of a doting father. “Her laugh can make a stone smile.”
Dana didn’t doubt that. The mere mention of his daughter had caused a remarkable transformation in John. “She sounds adorable.”
“Do you have any kids?”
She wouldn’t think about the pain that stabbed through her at his question. She should be used to it by now. “No, I don’t have any of my own, but I love all my young fans. I’m a real pushover when it comes to children.”
“That shows in your stories, too.”
“Well, thank you again.”
“D. J. Whittington and Mortimer,” he mused. “I can just imagine the look on Chantal’s face when I tell her that I met both of you…” His words trailed off. Gradually his smile faded. “Damn,” he muttered, putting the drawing back on the table.
The switch in his mood was as definite as a light going out. He was once more the intense, brooding stranger.
Yet the uneasiness Dana had been feeling on and off all day was gone. Morty had been a better judge of character than she had thought. Any man who was familiar with the Mortimer books, and who was so obviously devoted to his daughter, couldn’t be bad. Impulsively Dana reached out to touch his hand. “You’re worried about her, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be back home soon.”
He glanced at her fingers where she touched him. “I intend to be.”
“Maybe they’ve fixed the phone line by now. You could try again.”
“It’s still dead. I just checked.”
“I’m sure she’s fine. Your wife would be taking good care of her.”
“My wife—” He stepped back, breaking her contact with his hand. “Chantal’s mother…passed away.”
This time the twang in her heart was deeper. Pieces of his behavior that had bothered her fell into place. He was a widower, a single father. Was it any wonder he was so anxious about being stuck here by the storm? Or that he preferred silence to conversation? What if his reserve was simply his method of handling pain? He might very well still be mourning his wife. “Oh, I’m sorry, John. That must have been so difficult for both of you.”
“Yes.” Remy moved to the window, bracing one hand against the frame as he stared into the snow. “It was.”
Difficult? he thought. That didn’t come close to describing it. His wife’s death had been a nightmare.
He