The Mystery Man of Whitehorse. B.J. Daniels
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air.
The helpful neighbor was waiting in the living room. “Find anything?” he asked.
“Nothing much.” He’d told the old man that he was looking for his mother’s medical records. No lie there. He feared the man wouldn’t let him take the photo album if he told him about it, so he kept it hidden under his jacket.
Bridger handed him back the key, thanked him and took one last look at the inside of the house, wondering why Dr. Holloway had kept it and whose clothing that was downstairs. The dresses had been in different sizes, so that seemed to rule out a mistress.
A thought struck him, giving him a chill. Was it possible the birth mothers had stayed here in this house until they’d given birth? Maybe even Bridger’s own mother?
The used furniture appeared to be a good thirty years old and was now covered in dust. If his mother had stayed here, there was no sign of her after all this time.
He followed the old man out the front door, glancing back only once. For just a split second he imagined a woman standing at the front window, her belly swollen with the fraternal twins she carried, her face lost behind the dirty window.
TO KEEP FROM CALLING Alyson and ruining her honeymoon, Laci tried to stay busy. She cooked everything she could think to make, then had to find a home for all the food.
She dropped off a week’s meals at her grandfather Titus’s apartment—the one he’d taken in town so he could spend more time at his wife’s bedside at the nursing home.
Gramma Pearl’s condition hadn’t changed since her stroke. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t able to respond, even though Laci liked to believe she knew her and understood what Laci said to her. Once, Laci would have sworn her grandmother squeezed her hand. Laney said it must have been her imagination.
Laci’s imagination was legendary.
The treats Laci had baked she took to the staff at the rest home when she went to visit her grandmother. They all seemed to love her cookies and cakes.
As she came out of the nursing home, Laci was debating what to do with the batch of her famous spicy meatballs she had in her car. They were too spicy for—She collided with what felt like a brick wall, emitting an “ufft” as strong arms grabbed her to keep her from toppling over backward.
“We really have to quit meeting like this,” said a teasing male voice.
She looked up as she recognized the voice from the wedding reception. Actually, from the merry-go-round in the schoolyard next to the community center, where he’d come to her assistance.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, embarrassed.
“Nice to see you, too,” he said and grinned. “Glad to see you’ve recovered from the wedding. Still having trouble staying on your feet, though, I see.”
He was even better looking in broad daylight. He wore a western shirt, jeans and boots. His dark hair curled at the nape of his neck beneath his gray Stetson. She noted that his clothing was worn and dusty as if he’d been working.
She hadn’t taken him for a working cowboy last night—even though he’d been wearing boots with his tux. Apparently he was the real thing. Having grown up in old Whitehorse, she had a soft spot for cowboys. Especially ones as gallant as this one.
“Still rescuing damsels in distress, I see,” she said, cringing inside at the memory of what happened at the wedding.
He smiled and held out his hand. “I don’t think we were ever officially introduced. Bridger Duvall.”
Bridger Duvall? The mystery man of Old Town Whitehorse? Now she remembered why he’d seemed vaguely familiar. While their paths had never crossed, she’d certainly heard about him.
“Laci Cavanaugh,” she said, taking his hand. It was wonderfully large and warm and comforting. There was something so chivalrous about him. She recalled how he’d given her his napkin outside the community center. Also how he’d given her peace and quiet. She’d appreciated both.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, looking into her eyes before letting go of her hand.
“So you’re Bridger Duvall,” she said, feeling more than a little off-kilter considering the way their paths had crossed both times.
“The scurrilous rumors about me are highly exaggerated,” he said with a twinkle in his dark eyes.
She cocked her head at him, curious and maybe flirting just a little. He did have a great handshake, and that voice of his was so wonderfully deep and soft. Like being bathed in silk.
“Which rumors are those?” she asked.
“That I only come out at night, that I’m fabulously wealthy and that I’m doing weird experiments in the barn out on the ranch.”
She liked his sense of humor. “And how are they exaggerated?”
Grinning, he leaned toward her conspiratorially. “I do the weird experiments in the basement.”
“That house doesn’t have a basement.”
Bridger laughed as they walked toward their vehicles. “Caught me.”
Laci Cavanaugh. Granddaughter of Pearl Cavanaugh. He felt only a twinge of guilt. It had been no accident running into her today. He hadn’t meant the run-in to be so literal, though. But whatever worked.
“Well, at least now I know which rumors are true,” she said as she moved to her car and started to open the door.
“It was nice seeing you again,” he said, surprised he meant it—and not because of his ulterior motive.
She smiled. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”
As she opened her car door, he was hit with a tantalizing aroma that took his breath away. “What is that wonderful scent?” he asked stepping over to lean past her into the open car door to take a whiff.
She laughed. “Meatballs and spaghetti. I was planning to drop the dish off at the senior center, but I’m afraid it’s too spicy for their tastes.”
Bridger cocked a brow at her. “Well, it is almost dinnertime, and I just happen to know the perfect place to take it. I can assure you it would be greatly appreciated. Just follow me. It’s only a few blocks from here.”
He saw her hesitate, as if worried that the rumors about him might be true, before accepting. If she only knew.
Laci followed his pickup, surprised when he turned into a spot in front of one of the old empty buildings on the main street, and wondered if she hadn’t made a mistake in coming here with him.
“I don’t understand,” she said, looking from him to the building, which apparently was being remodeled.
“You will.” He opened her car door and took out the casserole dish. “Right this way.”
He led her through the front of the restaurant, which was filled with sawhorses, tools, dust and paint supplies, through two swinging doors that led to the new stainless-steel commercial kitchen. Everything but a small table and two chairs was covered with plastic until the painting was finished.
Clearly this was where he’d been working. He put the casserole on the round table and dug under the plastic to open a cabinet and bring out dishes.
“I have some leftover bread and a salad I’d planned to eat for supper,” he said, setting both on the table.
“What is this place?” she asked, looking back toward the front of the building as he began to cut thick slices of the bread.
“It’s a restaurant. Well, that is, it will be once it’s finished,” he said with obvious pride, and she realized he worked here.
“Opening a new restaurant in Whitehorse?” She hadn’t meant to sound so disbelieving.
“I