Thanksgiving Groom. Brenda Minton
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the hint and placed the woman on the worn seat of a sofa that they’d had to beat the dust out of just a few months earlier. The Johnsons had been here about a month before he showed up.
“Yes, I’m sure.” He’d seen her pictures. He knew her father. She was Penelope Lear. And she was the last person he wanted to see.
“Goodness.” Wilma Johnson clucked, the way she’d clucked over him more than once.
“Wake up.” He patted Penelope’s cheek as Mrs. Johnson stood next to him, leaning in, watching. “Ms. Lear, time to wake up.”
She blinked and looked at him. “Where am I?”
“A hunting lodge.”
“People live out here?” she murmured.
“People do. It isn’t necessarily the most inhabited part of Alaska, or the most civilized, but here we are.”
She scrambled to sit up. Mrs. Johnson patted her shoulder. “There, there, sweetie, you’re safe. And don’t worry about Tucker, he’s lacking social skills. We’ll take good care of you until we can get you back to safety.”
“Thank you, Mrs….?”
“I’m Wilma Johnson. My husband and I were staying here. And then Tucker came along to stay with us.”
Penelope looked back at him. “They think you’re dead.”
“I’m obviously not. But why would they think that?”
“They found your plane, blood and then no sign of you. They haven’t given up, though.”
Tucker sat down in the chair near the fire. He needed a minute to soak in the idea that the folks in Treasure Creek assumed he was dead. He hadn’t considered that. He should have, though. Wilma was busy untangling Penelope’s hair, pulling small sticks and leaves from the blond strands. The older woman shot him a look, her lips pursed.
She was a mother at heart. She had lost her only child, but that didn’t stop her from mothering. She’d been hovering over him for months, trying to fix him, to fix his heart. And it had been a long time since anyone had mothered him.
“I’m going to make tea.” Wilma stepped away from Penelope and he knew what she was doing. She was leaving them to share their stories.
He watched her leave the room and then he turned, facing the woman who had sat up, but still held the blanket tight around herself. He got up to put wood on the fire.
“I was on my way to a friend’s cabin.” He shoved a log into the fireplace, poking it into place with the metal poker and then standing back as sparks shot up and flames licked at the mossy bark. “The plane stalled out on me and I landed on that lake. I did hit my head as I came down, but I managed to get out and to walk here.” He had walked for three days, he explained, and he’d been as lost as he’d ever been in his life.
“I know they’ve searched a large area around the lake.”
“I hadn’t meant to cause panic. I even left a note on a tree, that I’d find shelter and that I was on my way to a friend’s cabin. Not that I made it to that cabin. Mr. Johnson found me wandering the woods. Concussion I guess. I don’t know how far I walked from the plane. And you, Ms. Lear, what brought you to Treasure Creek? Are you hunting for a rugged outdoorsman? A man to share your life and your heart with, as that infamous article stated?”
She glared at him and he wanted to smile. “How did you know my name?”
“You’re Penelope Lear. Who doesn’t know the Lears of Anchorage.”
“That isn’t who I am.”
“You aren’t Penelope?” He stayed close to the fire, watching her gather herself. Lamplight flickered, casting shadows on a face that was beautiful in a way he wouldn’t have imagined. Maybe because of the light in her eyes, the animation of her features.
“I am Penelope Lear. But, but I’m not a spoiled little rich girl.” In the warm glow of the lamp, he saw tears pool in her blue eyes.
“I’m sure they’ll be looking for you.”
“Of course they will.” She shivered again.
But would they find her? Penelope huddled into the blanket, glad for its warmth, and for the fire. Her ankle throbbed and her throat was dry and sore. Probably from screaming at the bear.
“I have to try to get out of here, back to Treasure Creek. I have a compass in my pocket and I know I need to go straight south.”
“Straight south from where?”
Okay, that was a fair question. “From where I left the Jeep.”
This was not the way to prove her intelligence. She cringed a little as she replayed her words.
He smiled a little. At least he didn’t laugh at her. “Do you know where you left it? What direction you went? Where you got lost?”
“No.” The truth—stark, kind of cold and not what she wanted to admit to. “No, I don’t have any clue. I left the Jeep and started in the direction I thought was south. I guess that was about seven hours ago now.”
“You’ve never heard you’re supposed to stay in one place if you get lost?”
She glanced away from him. “Of course, but does anyone follow that rule?”
He hadn’t. “No, but they should. And I’m afraid that means you’re stuck with us for a little while.”
She flipped the blanket back and stood, wobbling a little as her weight settled on her swollen ankle. She bit back an exclamation and he watched her, as if he wasn’t sure what she’d do next.
“I can’t be stuck here. I have to—”
Brows arched. “Have to what?”
She sank back onto the couch, because it was no use. She had to find a husband who would love her. Cynical eyes didn’t want to hear about love, about a father who thought he could pick the perfect mate for his daughter.
It sounded positively Victorian when she said it out loud. Her friends had laughed when they heard.
“Nothing.” Why should she care if she got stuck here for a year? Maybe this was God’s plan, for her to hide here. And perhaps her father would forget his plans.
Tucker Lawson pushed himself up from the chair. He sat down on the edge of the massive coffee table and reached for her foot. She flinched but bit back her protest as he lifted it.
“If we had ice, we’d ice it down.” He touched the darkened flesh and she squeezed her eyes closed. “Bad?”
“Not at all.” She opened her eyes and he was watching her. Cynicism had been replaced by concern. He held her foot, hands gentle but rough and calloused. Not the hands of a lawyer, she thought.
No, he had the hands of a man who had been living off the land for several months. A man with broad shoulders cloaked in a flannel shirt. She remembered that he smelled of soap, not cologne or aftershave. He smelled of the outdoor air and laundry detergent.
He reached for a pillow and placed it on the table. As he stood he propped her foot on the pillow, easing it down gently. She stared at him, not sure what to do or what to stay.
“Thank you for rescuing me.”
“You’re welcome.” His voice was gruff, dismissive.
She wanted to tell him she wasn’t a bad person. She wasn’t another empty-headed socialite, intent on fun and not caring about others. She wished she could tell him she hadn’t traveled to Treasure Creek thinking she might find a husband. That would have been a lie. What woman didn’t want to find her dream man?
She thought it started for most girls when they turned five and had their first kindergarten crush. It was downhill from there. Every