White Wedding. Jean Barrett
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or less adopted me. I think Allison was convinced I was much too naive to survive on my own. She was probably right. So here we are, still friends—though long-distance friends now—and the relationship still amazes me.”
Northwestern University, Lane thought. It wasn’t just Allison she had met back then. Jack Donovan had been there, too, working on his doctorate and already making a reputation for himself in his field. If it was true that her connection with Allison had been improbable, then her bonding with Jack could be defined as incredible.
From the beginning, from their first encounter, in fact, the sexual attraction between them had been so powerful it had stunned both of them. But the miracle—and it had been just that—never stood a chance.
Not smart, she reminded herself. Not smart at all reliving her brief marriage, remembering how hard she had fallen for him and the heartache that had eventually resulted. But how could she avoid remembering? An absent Jack Donovan was hard enough to forget. But when he was actually here, only yards away in the next sleigh, the effort was impossible.
Though she had resisted riding with him, permitting Ronnie Bauer to inflict herself on the poor man, she couldn’t prevent her awareness of Jack. Even from here his Gaelic good looks were evident. It hurt just looking at him.
Why was he here, and how was she supposed to spend an entire weekend in the same house with him? And that unexplained warning of his back on the dock... What did that mean? Nothing, she tried to convince herself. Just a ploy to get her to ride with him. Then why couldn’t she stop thinking about it?
Danger. There was an aura of danger here that intensified when Jack sensed her gaze on him. He swiveled in his seat, making eye contact with her across the ice that separated them. The hot challenge in his probing stare robbed her lungs of air. There was also a glowering accusation in his look. Jack was not prepared to forgive her for Ronnie. The woman, squeezed against him as tightly as decency permitted, was clearly aggravating him on every level.
Lane didn’t think he’d appreciate her sudden smile. She hid it by shifting behind the pair of cross-country skis that protruded from the luggage piled in the middle seat between them and their driver.
“Sorry,” Dan said.
She glanced at him, perplexed.
“The skis blocking your view,” he explained. “They’re mine. I’m hoping to get in some time with them this weekend.”
Which accounted for the bright blue insulated jumpsuit he was wearing, she realized.
“This probably will be my last chance to ski the island, so I’d like to take advantage of the opportunity. Which, of course,” he went on, “is also the reason Allison is insisting on having her wedding on the island.”
Here it was again, she thought. Another reference to Allison’s mysterious determination.
Dan noticed her puzzlement and shook his head. “I shouldn’t be mentioning it. It’s for Allison to explain, and I think she’s planning to do that before the wedding tomorrow. So,” he said, quickly changing the subject, “where are we now?” He checked the distance from his side of the sleigh. “Better than halfway there, I think. How are you holding up?”
She was about to assure him she was doing just fine when off to her left she spotted what looked like a veil of steam rising from the ice. Her apprehension was exasperating to her, but she couldn’t help her alarm. “Is that what I think it is?”
Dan followed her gaze and nodded. “Yes,” he said mildly, “a patch of open water. Sometimes the currents force a breach. Don’t worry. The Nordstroms know how to read the ice. They’ll avoid any tricky spots.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He must think her an absolute neurotic, she thought. All the same, she couldn’t wait to put this crossing behind her.
The fishing shanties were far behind them now. There was nothing on the sea of ice but the two racing sleighs. The air was no longer still. Lane could feel a ripple of wind in her face as their destination loomed ahead of them. This time she distracted herself by remembering what Allison had told her about Thunder Island.
By legend, it was the ancestral home of the Thunder clan of the Menominee people who had once dominated this entire region of Wisconsin. Shaped like an artist’s palette, the island was almost two hundred acres in extent. Nearly all of it was heavily wooded with evergreens and mixed hardwoods. On its southern end—and Lane could see them clearly now—were massive, sheer limestone bluffs sloping gradually to the low, rocky shoreline on the north. The lodge was situated on the higher end of the island. She searched for a glimpse of it as they neared the island, but the forest concealed it.
“Almost there,” Dan promised as they rounded the shoulder of the closest bluff and headed into the indented portion of the palette, which formed a natural harbor.
Seconds later their sleigh reached the island’s dock, where the pickup truck that had brought out the supplies and the weekend helpers was parked. Lane felt like a white-knuckled flier who has just made a safe landing. Climbing from the sleigh with relief, she expressed her gratitude to Dan.
“Thanks for all the expert hand-holding. Oh, it looks like we’re being met.”
Two men, who must have noted their arrival from the lodge, were descending the bluff trail. Lane and the judge watched them emerge single file from the trees.
“Probably came down to help with the luggage,” Dan said. “That’s Nils Asker in the lead. Runs a charter fishing boat in the summers. Allison has known him and his wife, Dorothy, since she was a girl. Dorothy will be waiting for us up at the house.”
The figure he indicated was tall and bony with a weathered Nordic face.
“And the other one?” Lane asked.
The second man had appeared from behind Nils where the path widened. He was younger than Nils, broad shouldered and copper skinned. He had the impressive, dark good looks of a pure Native American on his stoic face.
“That would be Nils’s brother-in-law, Chris Beaver,” Dan said slowly, “but I thought...”
He didn’t finish. There was a sudden expression of concern on his face. Lane, puzzled, saw him glance sharply in Allison’s direction. The second sleigh was emptying on the other side of the dock. Allison was busy talking to the driver, getting his assurance that both sleighs would return for them on Monday noon. She was unaware of the newcomers until Nils called a friendly greeting.
Lane was even more mystified then by Allison’s reaction when she looked up and discovered the presence of Chris Beaver. Her face registered shock and another emotion that could only be described as unhappiness. What’s more, her bridegroom, Hale, hadn’t missed her response. Chris, meanwhile, began silently unloading luggage, his somber black eyes making contact with none of them.
And just what, Lane wondered, is this all about?
She had no chance to find out. Jack had left the other sleigh and was striding toward her purposefully. That meant she had her own emotions to deal with, and they weren’t easy ones.
It didn’t help that he was dressed like that—his familiar Aussie outback hat crammed on his head at a rakish tilt, plus bulky ski jacket and snug cords that emphasized his lean masculinity. But then, Jack Donovan would have been disarming in a Sherpa ceremonial robe.
Subtlety was never his style, and obviously that hadn’t changed. Reaching her, he wasted no time in asking bluntly, “You all right? Was the crossing bad for you?”
Of course, he knew all about her phobia. He knew far too much about her, damn it.
She chose her words and tone with care, wanting him to realize she appreciated his concern but that he no longer had any right to be worried about her. In effect, reminding him that his overprotectiveness had been one of the sources of conflict in their marriage.
“No need to ask, but I’m just fine, thank you.”
Her