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Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

"He sees the little sparrow fall,
It meets His tender view,
If He so loves the little birds,
I know He loves me, too."

As the choir sang the first verse of the hymn her grandfather had taught her as a child, Allison fought to keep back her tears. She mustn't give in to the grief that was raging in her heart even though Gramps, her beloved Gramps lay in the polished oak coffin before the alter of the little country church. Her mother, a slender figure in black by her side in the pew, needed her to be strong.

She couldn't prevent regrets from renting her to the bone, however, as she realized she'd never be able to make up for her years of neglect and absence. She'd let shame and pride take precedence over love and duty. And now it was too late, it would always be too late to show her grandfather how very important he'd been to her, how beloved.

Gramps. What wonderful memories she had of him. Swinging her as a six- year-old onto his broad shoulders to give her a ride down to the boathouse, teaching her to hide in a blind on a frosty October morning to watch a flock of Canada Geese land majestically on a pond at dawn, paddling their canoe up a brook to see white tailed deer, rabbits, beaver, and other wildlife in their natural habitat. She could almost hear him now, speaking of trees and plants and wildflowers with the same kind of caring familiarity he used when talking about old friends.

But mostly she remembered his booming laugh, his constant joie de vivre. He'd loved life in all its forms and respected it with an intense reverence.

"We're just caretakers here," he'd told her one spring evening as they'd sat on the veranda steps enjoying the ambience of his bit of northern New Brunswick wilderness he called the Promise. "And some day we'll all be evaluated on how well we've done our job."

"He paints the lily of the field,
Perfumes each lily bell,
If He so loves the little flowers,
I know He loves me well."

Oh, Gramps, Grampie, yes, He does. How could anyone not love you! Suddenly Allison was the lost little girl whom her grandfather had found in the forest one summer's evening after she'd wandered away from a barbecue at the lodge. Suddenly she wanted to feel again that wonderful sensation of everything finally being all right that she'd experienced when he'd clasped her in his arms and whispered, "It's okay, Allie, it's okay. Gramps is here."

But she couldn't. Never would again. And suddenly the sobs came. Great wrenching hiccups that wracked her slender body and brought her mother's black gloved hand over hers on the back of the pew in front of them.

"Allison, please!" Myra Armstrong's voice was a tremulous whisper. "Gramps wouldn't want this! He'd expect us to maintain our dignity in front of his friends and neighbors."

Nodding, Allison took the soft square of linen her mother slipped into her hand and discreetly wiped her eyes. If Gramps' only child could avoid a public display of grief, Allison must do her best to emulate her. She drew a deep, shaky breath and, as the hymn ended, sank gratefully back into the pew.

The minister offered a final prayer, then nodded to the waiting pallbearers. With the organ softly playing Amazing Grace, they began to roll the coffin on its trolley slowly, respectfully toward the rear of the church.

Myra touched Allison's arm gently and they fell in behind it, the chief mourners for a man well loved and highly respected in his community. The little church, overflowing with those who had come to say farewell, bore testimony to the fact.

Then, as Allison and her mother followed the pallbearers and coffin out onto the church steps, she saw him for the first time in ten years. Standing alone in the fog beside the waiting hearse, his tawny field coat and liver colored Snowy River hat lightly filmed with mist, he startled her. And instantly her grief metamorphosed into outrage. He was the reason for the irreconcilable regrets that were tearing at her heart.

The last time she'd seen him he'd been a tall, gangly teenager in torn jeans and dirty T-shirt, a rude comeback always ready on his lips, a defiant gleam of challenge in his brown eyes. And in less than two minutes one July night he'd destroyed all her dreams of love and romance and heroes.

But sometime during that decade, he'd filled out. And very nicely she had to admit noting the broad shoulders and lean, firm torso revealed through the jacket's open front.

His rebel roots were still blatantly obvious, however. He hadn't bothered to dress appropriately for the funeral even though the man about to be buried had been like a father to him. Beneath the jacket he wore a green plaid shirt and khaki bush pants. His tan work boots were scuffed and muddy.

Then he looked in her direction and Alison knew his attitude toward her hadn't changed, either. The moment he recognized her, a contemptuous bitterness bounded into his expression as quickly and naturally as a cat leaps onto a window ledge.

He held his burning gaze on her briefly, just long enough to rekindle their old animosity to full flame. Then he pulled off his hat and strode up the church steps two at a time to assist the pallbearers struggling to get her grandfather's coffin down the narrow, wooden stairway of the century-old country church.

He seized the brass handle on the rear left side and swung the casket about as easily as Allison recalled he could turn a canoe in a current. Moments later the softly polished oak box was sliding into the waiting hearse.

"Typical," Allison heard her mother breath softly. "Heath always was excellent at taking charge in a crises."

The slender blond woman managed a glancing smile at her daughter that was like a rainbow through her repressed tears. Then she squared her slender shoulders and led the mourners down the church steps behind her father's casket.

In her black Italian trench coat and wide brimmed hat, Myra Armstrong was the epitome of quiet elegance. She moved with an easy, self assured grace that had come from years of practice and its well-received results. The few tiny lines at the corners of her soft green eyes suggested an age little more than that of Allison's older sister if she'd had one. Once, when Allison and Myra had been visiting a horse breeding farm in search of a new hunter, Allison had overheard one of the grooms refer to Myra as a classy broad. That said it all.

Then Allison pulled herself back to the moment and went down the steps to join her mother in shaking hands with the people who'd attended the church service. One by one Jack Adams' friends and neighbors offered their condolences, got into their vehicles, and drove out of the mist shrouded country churchyard. During the funeral, they had been informed that the graveside service was to be family only.

Finally Allison, Myra, the undertaker, and Heath were left standing alone in the thickening fog at the back of the hearse.

"Well." Myra clasped gloved hands and forced a tremulous smile. This time she swept it wide enough to include Heath and the austere man in black as well as her daughter. "Shall we go? Heath, will you drive with us?"

"Thanks, Mrs. Armstrong but I have my own vehicle. I'll meet you there."

He slapped his hat back over damp black hair that curled to below his ears and shot Allison a fast yet all encompassing and totally critical head to toe appraisal.

She wouldn't let him do it she vowed. She wouldn't let him make her squirm or even feel like it.

As his perusal returned to her face she thought she was ready and stared back with all the hostility she could muster. But as their gazes met, her resolve faltered. Why had he had to grow up to be so darned attractive? Why couldn't he have been as ugly as his parting shot at her all those years ago? The rugged outdoorsman face bronzed by sun and wind had the firm jaw lines, high cheek bones, and intense brown eyes that could easily send a woman's pulse racing to triple speed.

And, on occasion, it apparently had, she thought, remembering one of her mother's wealthy friend's description of her visit to her grandfather's fishing lodge, the Promise, where Heath was guide foreman and camp manager.

"Robert fished," Candace Breckenridge had drawled as she'd sat draped over a chaise longue at the Armstrong's Muskoka summer place. "And I simply devoured that decidedly Tarzan-look-alike guide named Heath. Lord, even his name is earthy and wild! The minute I saw him, I knew I had to have him. Myra, tell your Dad never, never to fire that boy. He's Jack's biggest drawing card. And that ridiculous scare I had added just the right amount of seasoning to the whole adventure."

"What scare?" Myra had asked sharply but Candace, apparently sorry she'd mentioned it, had evasively waved aside her friend's query.

"Oh, come on now, Myra. You know. Almost being caught. But then the intrigue is half the fun. But enough in front of the child." She'd waved deprecatingly toward Allison.

Allison, however, had only been half-listening since Candace's original statement and had almost scoffed aloud at it. Delicious, Tarzan-like! That skinny kid with the rotten manners charming a sophisticated woman like Candace Breckenridge? Preposterous! Now, as she looked at him, she was forced to slash a line through that adjective.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a Lincoln Continental. The big car stopped close to the hearse and its driver. A man stepped out, impeccably dressed in a well tailored charcoal business suit, pearl-white shirt, and carefully knotted silk tie.

"Mrs. Armstrong?" He approached Myra quickly, extending his hand. "James Wilcox, ma'am, National Realty. Allow me to express my sincere condolences on your loss."

Of average height with receding brown hair beginning to gray prematurely, he was in his late thirties, Allison guessed, and a smooth, professional business type if she'd ever seen one. His most striking feature was his eyes. As blue as sapphires they were equally as cold.

"Thank you." Myra, always the lady, accepted his gesture. "I'm sorry...I don't recall...have we met?"

"No," His smile tilted up the corners of his mouth but didn't reach his eyes or warm them. "But I had approached your father with an offer to purchase his holdings shortly before...the tragedy. Let me assure you, I still have the client I told him about prepared to make a handsome offer for his lodge and grounds."

"Buy the Promise?" Myra's astonishment rang in her voice. "I...really, I'm not...this is hardly an appropriate moment to discuss..."

Myra Armstrong, the usually poised, articulate wife of one of the country's leading neurosurgeons, was suddenly stammering before the man's crassness.

"Mrs. Armstrong isn't in a position to talk business today."

Heath was suddenly interceding, stepping between her mother and the stranger. "I suggest you leave...now."

"I'd prefer to hear that decision from the lady's own lips." James Wilcox was unmoved but his arctic-blue eyes narrowed.

"And I said shove off, Wilcox. Jack wouldn't do business with you and neither will his daughter."

"Mrs. Armstrong, are you going to let this backwoods hoodlum turn away an excellent offer..."

"Please..." Myra held up a hand and lowered her head, shaking it in exhausted confusion. She was nearing tears.

Heath's hands shot out and grabbed the lapels of the elegant suit. In a matter of seconds he had dragged James Wilcox away and was stuffing him into his Lincoln.

"You can't do this!" Wilcox yelled but Heath's answer was to slam the door on his words.

Seconds later when the big car whirled about, and with a renting of church yard lawn headed off into the fog, Heath calmly watched the car as it passed out of sight. Then he returned to the trio waiting by the hearse.

"Thank you, Heath," Allison was astounded to hear her anti-violence mother breathe. "I couldn't bear to discuss disposing of Dad's property--not today."

"No problem. Now we'd better get underway."

He turned away into the mist. Allison watched as he climbed into a canvas topped Jeep and revved the motor. She remembered how Jack Adams had taken Heath and his mother in when they'd had no place else to go and how he had practically raised the boy as his own. Her grandfather had even financed his housekeeper's son through college although he'd pretended Heath's mother had done it on her own through her job at his lodge.

"Come on, darling." Myra took her daughter by the elbow and urged her toward their gray rental car now standing alone in the parking lot. "We'll meet Heath at the lane, Mr. Jenkins," she said with a quiet smile at the undertaker. "Just as soon as we pick up our luggage at the motel."

"Are you sure you can manage, Mrs. Armstrong?" The tall, thin man furrowed his pale forehead and rubbed gloved hands nervously together. "I'll take care of every detail I can but this is a highly unusual arrangement and it all had to be done so hastily..."

"We've covered all the legalities, I assure you, Mr. Jenkins. There's no need to concern yourself. Heath can manage the rest."

"Mom, what do you mean, 'handle all the legalities, no need to concern yourself'?" Allison hissed as mother and daughter started toward their car. "What haven't you told me? Gramps is going to be buried in the church cemetery, isn't he?"

"No, dear, he isn't." Myra paused, a slender black gloved hand on the handle of the driver's door, and met her daughter's startled gaze. "He's going to be buried at Adam's Landing. It was his last wish. I've secured all the necessary legal clearances so now there is nothing left but to do it."

"Mom, no! That canoe landing is in the middle of nowhere! It's only accessible by the river route! This is crazy, especially at this time of year with a full freshet flooding down from the mountains!" Allison was wide-eyed with disbelief.

"Actually, there is a land route." Her mother calmly slid behind the wheel. "It's a bit rough but Heath has assured me we can manage it alone."

"We...three...alone?" Allison was beginning to feel she was in a strange, surreal dream full of dense spring fog and crazy ideas.

"Get in, dear." Her mother started the motor. "It's supposed to rain. The trail out to the Landing isn't the best even on a dry summer's day, and we still have to pick up our suitcases at the motel before check out time. We mustn't keep Heath waiting, either. I'm sure he's eager to get this over with."

In stunned silence Allison obeyed. The whole world had gone nuts she decided and was dragging her along with it.

But maybe going nuts was preferable to going in the direction her life currently seemed destined to take. When she'd been in university she'd had the satisfaction of knowing she was laying the foundation for her future, the knowledge that she was making her parents proud. Now that was behind her and all that seemed to stretch out before her was a nine-to-five job in some Toronto-based corporation where she'd only be another upwardly mobile female who'd spend her life fighting some good old boys' network to land a VP or CEO spot by the time she was forty or fifty-something.

Not much originality there. She'd talked to women who'd been there, done that, and frankly, she hadn't been impressed or inspired, either by their struggles or the rewards their efforts had produced. She didn't need the money and wielding power over others had never been very high on her list of priorities.

Well, she could simply marry Paul. He'd pursued her, or rather, she thought cynically, he'd pursued Dr. Cameron Armstrong's daughter during their years at university together. Now, less than a month after writing his final exams, he was working for a prestigious Toronto brokerage firm and, she guessed, probably already on his way to a stellar career in finance.

Life with him would be relatively simple. All he'd ever expect of her was to look terrific, be a perfect hostess to his clients, and hyphenate her name to Armstrong- Bradley to keep her parentage always in the forefront.

Neither choice held much appeal as she stared out through the windshield into the dismal day. She decided not to think about it any more. There were other more immediate concerns to deal with at the moment and she, like Scarlett O'Hara "would think about it tomorrow."

"Mom, that man, James Wilcox." To replace those disturbing thoughts, Allison decided to broach one of those immediate concerns with her mother. "Maybe you should at least hear what he has to say. Not now," she hastened to add as Myra threw a hurtfully annoyed glance of astonishment her way. "But later, after the will is read. You'll be looking to sell the place and from what I know of National Realty, it definitely is a viable agency to employ in selling the Promise. I read about the company when I was researching a paper for my degree."

"Allison, really! I expected more from you! Your grandfather is barely gone and you're already discussing profit and loss!"

"Mom, I..."

"Enough. I don't want us to quarrel today of all days...when we need each other's support so badly. Let's just concentrate on carrying out your grandfather's last wishes and put everything else on hold. Please?"

She glanced over at her daughter, tears again brimming in her eyes, and Allison was consumed with guilt.

"Of course, Mom." She reached over and patted one of the black gloved hands on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry. Forgive me?"

"Of course," Myra echoed and made herself smile at her daughter.

Twenty minutes later Myra pulled over onto the shoulder of the narrow country road and turned off the motor. Heading down a rutted, impassable looking trail that led into the bush on the left was a dirty, dented relic that must once have been a farm tractor. Jack Adams' coffin was strapped to a wooden trailer behind it. Heath Oakes was checking the straps that held it in place. The undertaker, apparently having completed his part in this fiasco, must have departed.

"No! Mom, really, this is insane!" Allison pushed her fingers through her short, dark auburn hair. "You can't possibly believe the three of us are going to take Gramps' remains down this road with that...thing and bury his coffin...alone?"

"Allison." Myra placed her hand gently over her daughter's and spoke firmly. "This was his last wish. It's the least I can do for him. I wasn't exactly the best of daughters."

"He never believed that for a minute." Allison couldn't bear the sadness and remorse in her mother's voice. "He loved you. He never once blamed you for marrying Dad and moving away. Every time he visited us in Ottawa, he made that perfectly clear."

"And how often did I visit him?" Myra withdrew her hand from her daughter's and jerked the keys from the ignition. "I was so busy with my family and fund raising, I hardly ever took the time to visit him. Even after your grandmother died, even when I should have known how lost and lonely he must have been without her. If it hadn't been for Heath and Ella Oakes, I don't know what he would have done."

"He did them the kindness!" Allison exploded. "Ella Oakes was a destitute widow with no job, no place to live, and a juvenile delinquent for a son when Gramps took them in. Who else would have done that? And don't forget. Heath was alone with Gramps when he died..."

"That's quite enough!" Myra Armstrong met her daughter's defiant green-eyed look with an equally unfaltering emerald one. "Heath and his mother saved your grandfather from excruciating loneliness and boredom after your grandmother died. They did what you and I, as his only daughter and granddaughter, should have done. And that's the end of it. Don't defile this day any further with wild, groundless innuendoes. Go and tell Heath we'll be with him directly. I want to change my footwear."

"But, Mom...!"

"Go!"

Seeing further protest would be pointless, Allison heaved an exasperated sigh and got out of the car. Her mother wasn't about to listen to her suspicions no matter how logical they were. The Oakes had completely finessed Myra Armstrong by playing her guilt and sense of gratitude.

The chip sealed road made walking in high heels a balancing act. By the time Allison reached Heath, her temper hadn't been improved by the experience.

"Mother's coming," she said coldly. "She's changing her shoes."

"Wouldn't hurt you to do the same," he replied curtly as he paused in checking the straps securing the casket and looked disdainfully down at her black pumps. "The lane is pretty rough and you and your mother will have to walk. There's no room for passengers on this rig."

"All my other footwear is packed in my suitcase in the trunk of the car," she said. "I don't have time to search through it for something even vaguely suitable...not if we're to beat the rain."

"There's a pair of rubber boots in the back of my Jeep," he said, turning away and climbing up onto the driver's seat. "They might be a little large but they'll be better than those things you're wearing."

The sharp retort brewing in her throat died as her mother came striding up to them, feet encased in sturdy black Wellingtons.

"Ready?" Myra forced a smile across her beautiful face.

"As soon as Ms. Armstrong gets herself appropriately shod," Heath said. He looked down at the older woman, his tone and outlook softening. "I know you're anxious to get on with this."

"Good heavens, Allison!" Her mother stared down at her daughter's feet. "I completely forgot to tell you to bring boots!"

"I've told her I have boots in the back of my Jeep she can borrow," Heath replied, shooting the younger woman a cold glance.

"Well, then!" Myra turned to her daughter with a no-contest, what-are-you- waiting-for look.

Allison shot Heath a withering glance before she swung away and strode arrogantly toward the Jeep parked by the side of the road. Her attempt at hauteur was foiled as one of her slender heels caught in loose rocks and she had to scramble to keep her balance.

As she righted herself and continued on her way to the vehicle at a slower pace, she imagined she could feel him mentally sneering after her. She'd be eternally grateful when all this was over, the will had been read, and her mother, who would inherit her father's entire holdings, could send him packing.

And Myra Armstrong would do just that, her daughter vowed, as she reached into the back of the cluttered Jeep and pulled out a pair of mud spattered rubber boots she knew at a glance were several sizes too large. She, Allison Armstrong, would convince her mother to dismiss him, no matter what she thought as she pulled off her pumps, flung them angrily into the back of the dirty vehicle, and stepped into the oversized wellies.

Struggling to keep them on her feet while maintaining a few shreds of her dignity, she stomped back to the tractor and the waiting couple. She caught a glint of amusement flickering in Heath's eyes and felt a prickling annoyance flood through her veins. A black, short-skirted designer original suit did not coordinate with dirty, calf-high puddle pleasers.

"Are you ready, Heath?" Myra looked up at the black haired man in bush clothes on the tractor.

"Ready when you are, Mrs. Armstrong," he replied, the affable tone returning.

"Then let's away."

"Yes, ma'am."

He leaned forward and turned a switch. The motor sputtered, then roared to life. He turned briefly to flash a triumphant grin down on Myra. Then, focussing his attention on the trail ahead, he put his hand over the gear shift and, with an effort, forced it into drive.

All but unseating its driver, the old tractor leaped forward like a bucking horse.

Allison sniggered.

"Ride 'em, cowboy!" she couldn't resist jeering.

"Allison, really!" Her mother's sharp tap on her arm reminded her of the solemnity of the occasion and she checked her malicious pleasure.

To her disappointment, Heath soon had the temperamental old vehicle under control. As it began to jolt its way down the trail, he settled it into a slow plod through the ruts of spring softened ground. Myra and Allison fell in behind it, a small guard of honor.

The mile and a half trek to the burial site seemed interminable to Allison stumbling along in boots that threatened to flop off with every step. Cloying mud sucked at them and kept her engaged in a constant battle just to keep her feet, as Heath had so picturesquely put it, shod.

"Mom, I can't believe Gramps expected us to do this!" she puffed. "This trail is all but impassable!"

"Heath's managing, darling." Myra paused and indicated the tractor and trailer slogging and lurching down the trail ahead of them. "And so am I. I guess Gramps expected you to have appropriate footwear...and a bit of perseverance."

"Mom..." Allison tried to protest but her mother simply smiled sweetly and set off again following the dirty, roaring vehicle in front of them.

A half hour later they emerged into a meadow still covered with the dry, dead grasses of winter. In the mist it was a dull brown carpet surrounded by walls of dark brooding spruce and solemn white pine. Somewhere several yards ahead, obscured by the fog, the river swollen with the freshet of melting mountain snows thundered past. Allison visualized its dangerous, swollen torrent and remembered another spring time ten years ago when a gangly teenage boy had dared her to run its untamed gantlet with him.

At first she'd flatly refused. Then he'd begun to taunt her, calling her chicken, stuffing his hands into his armpits and flapping about in front of her until she couldn't stand it.

"All right, all right!" she'd finally screamed. "I'll run your rotten old river with you!"

They'd been pushing the canoe into the water when Gramps had arrived.

He'd ended the escapade with a few sharp, well chosen words to both of them on their foolhardiness. But to Allison, he had been unusually harsh.

"You, Heath, still have a lot to learn before you attempt to run the North Passage at full flood," he said facing the pair like a white haired, barrel chested giant. "Because of that fact, I can understand your thinking you could. But, you, Allison,"--he turned to his granddaughter as close to anger as he'd ever come with her--"you've been coming here since you were a baby. You know better."

The tractor's revving and roaring brought her back to the moment and Allison saw Heath navigating it about to back its trailer up to a freshly dug grave beside a stone monument. She heaved a sigh. At least it would soon be over.

Finally he managed to park with the back of the trailer at the lip of the yawning hole. He cut the motor and climbed down as Myra joined him.

"Well." Her mother moved close to the tall, broad shouldered man and put a hand on his arm. "We made it. Thank you, Heath."

"Thanks aren't necessary, Mrs. Armstrong," he said. "I can never repay Jack Adams for all he did for my mother and me. Are you ready to proceed?"

Allison saw her mother's black hat nod. "Allison, come here, dear." Myra turned to summon her lagging daughter.

When the two women stood side by side next to the trailer, Heath carefully released the restraining straps, pulled out a pin that allowed the trailer to tilt slowly and let the coffin slide carefully, respectfully into the grave.

Myra heaved a huge sigh of relief. "That was excellent, Heath," she breathed.

"All Ethan Jarvis' doing," he said. "As a funeral director, he's a perfectionist, even when it comes to fast, unusual arrangements like these. Do you want to say a few words before I fill it in?"

"Yes."

Drawing her daughter along with her, Myra Armstrong moved to stand on the brink of the grave. She paused and closed her eyes. Allison saw two tears trickle from beneath the closed lids and slide silently down her mother's cheeks. Although Myra Armstrong hadn't spent much of her adult life with her father, she had loved him deeply.

Then Myra opened her eyes, pulled a tissue from her pocket, and dabbed away her tears.

"Come join us, Heath," she said regaining her self control.

"Yes, ma'am." Heath pulled off his hat and went to stand on her right.

Then Myra took a hand of each of her companions.

"Let us pray," she said softly, bowing her head.

As Allison and Heath followed her example, she continued, "Dear Lord, please welcome Jack Adams as he welcomed all those who came to his door. Give him a place in eternity as beautiful as this land he loved so intensely and let him share it with the woman he has always loved. Amen."

"Amen." Heath's voice edging on a broken croak startled Allison. It sounded as if he really cared.

"Dad," Myra startled her daughter by continuing while she still held their hands. "I'll see that your wishes are carried out. Rest in peace, knowing that."

As if in answer a robin in a nearby burgeoning birch burst into song. Jack Adams would have liked that natural, impromptu touch Allison knew and smiled tremulously.

Then Myra released her companions' hands and nodded to Heath. "You can begin."

Heath pulled off his coat and was about to drop it to the ground with his hat but she reached out and took them.

"Thanks," he said and for a moment their gazes met. Allison saw an empathy flash between him and her mother. It startled her. Then Heath turned away and pulled the shovel from the pile of earth beside the grave. The harsh sound of the first clump of dirt hitting the coffin in the misty hush of the meadow startled her and left her taut and suddenly acutely aware of the finality of the moment.

"Gramps!" she whispered desperately. "Oh, Grampie!"

"Come along, darling." Myra once again took her hand. "We'll take a walk down to the river and let Heath do his work."

Allison paused a moment to look at the man shoveling earth into the grave, feet braced, his lean muscular body moving mechanically, easily it appeared, through the heavy task. His face was grim and sad.

Then Allison allowed her mother to lead her around the excavation toward the river. At the granite monument, however, she stopped abruptly.

"Maud Adams! Grandma! I didn't know she was buried here!" she gasped.

"She died in December you'll remember." Myra put a gloved hand gently on the stone, her eyes softening with the memory. "You, your dad, and I were here for the funeral. The ground was frozen so burial was delayed until spring. When the time arrived, your father had several serious cases he couldn't leave and you were deep in exams at school. I came down alone. Dad and Ethan Jarvis had arranged for it to be here after cutting through mountains of red tape. It was then your grandfather had the monument erected and arrangements made to be placed beside her when his time came. Now come along," she urged as her daughter's eyes grew misty again. "Gramps hated crying women. He never knew quite what to do with them. Let's not distress him today."

Allison followed her mother away from the grave sites and across the sloping field. When they reached the river, they paused. The torrent thundering magnificently, uninhibitedly past reminded Allison of her tall, powerfully built grandfather with his thick mane of white hair and booming laugh. He'd had a wonderful tenor voice and often entertained his guests at the lodge from his large repertoire which included everything from show tunes to country-western. Allison had especially enjoyed the times he'd sung Annie's Song to her grandmother who often accompanied him on her acoustic guitar.

What a pair they'd been--until Gram had been diagnosed with cancer and died slowly before Jack Adams' helpless, desperate eyes.

He'd never sung again. He'd remained jovial with his guests, always appeared happy when he visited Allison and her parents in Ottawa on holidays but he'd never again radiated the overwhelming sense of joie de vivre that had once been a halo about him.

Was that what love meant? A song bursting in your heart when you had it and silence when it was gone? If it was, Allison knew it hadn't happened yet for her. She was twenty-two, had had her share of high school and college romances but none, not even Paul, had sparked anything like music in her heart.

"You're cold." Myra put an arm about her daughter and hugged her to her side. "Heath must be done by now. We'll leave immediately. Dad wouldn't want any of us to catch pneumonia."

"I would have dressed more appropriately if you'd told me these plans," Allison said, cold and tiredness bringing testiness into her tone.

"I was afraid you'd protest and, frankly, my darling, in the past day and a half since Dad died, I wouldn't have had the strength to argue with you. Especially since your father had several critically ill patients and couldn't come with us on such short notice. Gramps would have understood his not attending the funeral under those conditions but you know how I rely on your father's strength at times like this."

Allison saw exhaustion settling over Myra Armstrong's delicately featured face.

"Mom, I'm sorry if I led you to believe you couldn't depend on me." Allison felt instantly ashamed of her less than compassionate words. "I loved Gramps. I'm willing to do whatever he wanted."

"But all those years you refused to visit him..." Myra turned to face her daughter squarely.

"I had my reasons." Allison avoided her mother's questioning eyes and stared out at the river roiling past, wild and careless. "And they had nothing to do with not loving Gramps."

"Would you like to tell me...now?" Myra stood apart from her daughter and waited.

"No. They're not relevant anymore. But the facts remain; the fact that Gramps is gone; the fact that I didn't share any of his final days with him."

She faced her mother abruptly.

"Let's go. I'm cold and tired ...just like you must be. Heath should have finished filling in the grave by now."

Chapter Two

By the time Allison had reached the road it was raining hard. By the time Myra arrived with the car keys, she was drenched and shivering.

"Let's go." Her teeth were chattering as she huddled against the car, hugging herself in a vain effort to get warm. "Quick."

"Oh, I'm sorry, darling, didn't I tell you?" Her mother paused with her hand on the door as she looked out at her daughter from beneath the brim of her hat that was conveniently shedding water like a duck's back. "You're staying...at the lodge. I have to go back immediately...the fundraising drive for the new children's wing at the hospital is at a very tenuous point...but someone has to be here for the reading of the will."

"Me...stay...at the lodge...with him!" Allison was sputtering. "Oh, this is too much! I won't, Mom. That's it. I simply won't!"

"Darling, there's no alternative. A family member must be here for the reading of the will and I can't possibly be away any longer. Please, don't be difficult. Get your suitcase out of the trunk and go with Heath."

She glanced over her daughter's shoulder and smiled.

Allison turned to her nemesis standing behind her.

"If you'll give me your keys, I'll get your daughter's luggage, Mrs. Armstrong," he said politely.

For a moment Allison stood where she was, too overwhelmed with anger to move. Then she threw up her hands.

"All right, all right! I'm cold and tired and hungry and outnumbered. But as soon as that lawyer reads that will, I'll be on the next plane to Ottawa. Agreed?"

She ran her fingers through her cropped auburn hair and instantly regretted the action. It created rooster tails when her hair was dry; drenched, she knew it would make spikes.

"Of course." Myra handed the keys to Heath. As he went to the rear of the car, she embraced her disgruntled daughter briefly but firmly. "Thanks, sweetie. Dad will be grateful. And so am I."

"I'm not sure Paul will feel the same but, anyway, safe journey, Mom." Allison softened at her mother's eminent departure. "Kiss Dad for me."

"With pleasure." Myra stepped away from her and smiled at her through the rain. "You're doing better already. Take care of my girl, Heath," she continued to the man who had returned, Allison's oversized suitcase in his hand. "And be cautious. She recently passed self defense training with flying colors."

Allison caught the slightest suggestion of a jest in her mother's words and hoped, just hoped he'd try something that would allow her to demonstrate her skill.

"I will," he said, an irritating twinkle flickering in his eyes as he handed the older woman her keys. "Safe journey, Mrs. Armstrong."

"Thank you." With a final smile that encompassed them both she slid into her car, waved, and drove off, windshield wipers battling the increasing downpour.

"Who's Paul?" he asked as they watched her out of sight.

"Paul Bradley, a friend, actually I guess you'd call him my sort-of significant other."

"Sort of? Sounds serious."

She turned on him and saw disdain in his expression.

"Don't!" she snapped.

"Don't what?"

"Mock me, belittle me, stand in judgment on me..."

"Let's go." He ignored her tirade, turned and headed for his Jeep. She had no choice but to follow.

"What about the tractor?" she asked as she stumbled along behind him in his Brobdingnagian boots. "Shouldn't it be returned to its owner?"

"The farmer we borrowed it from will pick it up later today," he said. "It's safe there in the lane. After all, who'd want to steal it?"

She caught a glimmer of humor in those alluring brown eyes and felt a smile struggling against her taut lips as they both glanced at the mud-spattered vehicle and home-made trailer looking scrap-yard-ready in the rain.

"It did the job," she said as they reached his Jeep and he flung the expensive valise into the back.

"Sure did," he replied. "And Jack would have gotten a whale of a belly laugh out of it."

He went around to the driver's side and swung into the seat. Allison went to the passenger side, started to get in, and found herself effectively hobbled by her fitted skirt. No way was it going to allow her to climb into the Jeep without hiking it up higher than she had any intention of doing in his presence.

"What?" he asked looking over at her as he leaned forward to put the key in the ignition.

"This thing wasn't built with a designer skirt in mind," she said. "And I certainly don't intend to take it off."

"Ah, for crying out loud!" He swung back out, strode around to her side, and in a split second swept her up into his arms.

A shock shot through her as her legs fell over his arm, and she felt her back cradled against his broad shoulder. A murmur of some brand of masculine soap whispered over her senses. This couldn't be the same creature who ten years ago had not discovered the benefits of deodorant or a daily shower. And the strength and power she felt beneath her was astounding. Here was an easy confidence and sense of authority that astonished her, that made her heart flip.

He paused with her in his arms and looked deep into her eyes. Allison felt herself turn to jelly. He was so handsome, so strong, so utterly self assured in a dangerous, untamed way. Suddenly she understood Candace Breckenridge's "delicious" and "Tarzan-like" adjectives.

As she looked up into the intense brown eyes and savagely handsome face, her body resting against his rock hard chest, her lips parted, moist and inviting.

"No." The word crashed over her like a bucket of ice water as he swung her unceremoniously into the passenger seat. "Fasten your seat belt. The road gets rough from here on."

He turned, strode back to the driver's seat, and swung into the vehicle.

"What do you mean, 'no'?" Allison was furious as she snapped the dusty belt into place across her drenched suit jacket. "Surely you can't be vain enough to think..."

"Look, Ms. Armstrong, I've been propositioned by enough rich city women over the years to recognize a 'take me' invitation when I see one." He leaned forward to turn the key in the ignition, anger in his words and tense body movements.

As the engine roared into action, he gathered up his seat belt and snapped it into place. Then he looked over at her, contempt flashing from brown eyes turned tawny with anger. "I would have thought you'd be decent enough to show some respect on this, of all days, and for once not your let your needs take over."

Speechless with rage, Allison could only glare death threats in his direction as he shifted the old vehicle into motion and they headed down the road toward the lodge. She'd never been so insulted in her life. He may have discovered soap and deodorant but his manners were still those of a hoodlum fresh out of a concrete jungle. How could he possibly imagine that she, Allison Armstrong, daughter of one of Canada's leading neurosurgeons and only last month a university honors graduate, could possibly be interested in him, even on a purely physical level. She'd worked out in the university gym. His wasn't the first hard body she'd experienced.

But it certainly was the earthiest, the most naturally virile she had to admit as she tried to analyze her reaction to his touch. It had something to do with the lean, suntanned face of a true outdoorsman, the dark soul piercing eyes of the truly untamed, and the complete sense of self reliance that only comes from a genuinely free spirit.

She glanced over at him. In profile he justified her thoughts, a romantic savage with just the right amount of cosmopolitan savoir-faire to be a female fantasy come to life: a genuine thrill for the neglected wives of wealthy men.

A vision of Heath with Candace Breckenridge flashed across her mind. Hastily she flicked it away as if she were surfing TV channels. Fixing her gaze on the road ahead, she remained stone silent for the following hour's drive. She couldn't, however, suppress a slight gasp of pure delight as they turned into the lane that led to the lodge.

Although it had been years since Allison had been to the lodge, she felt her sincere delight in the driveway return instantly. Over two miles long, it was a tunnel hewn out of an ancient forest of birch, pine, spruce, cedar, and maple. Jack Adams had believed in destroying no more of nature than was absolutely necessary. When he'd established the lodge over forty years ago, he'd cut and uprooted only those trees it was absolutely imperative to destroy to clear a road to the river. The rest he had left to grow into a living canopy over the trail.

Allison felt her animosity dissolving in the pure joy of driving slowly down the root rutted road bounded by the rich springtime green of burgeoning trees gently dripping crystal droplets of rain. It was like entering an enchanted forest. When a doe and her spotted fawn suddenly appeared in front of them their beauty in such a setting was breath taking.

Heath braked to a stop and turned off the motor.

"They're gorgeous!" Allison breathed. The doe's alert body was a tawny amber, she and her spotted, wide eyed baby the epitome of pristine innocence.

"Just a bit of what your grandfather was trying to protect," he said softly, a surprising reverence in his voice.

She glanced over at him and saw that the taut planes of his face had relaxed and softened as he leaned forward to watch the pair, his arms crossed on top of the steering wheel.

"I read a book entitled something like Green Mansions when I was a child," she said softly. "It was about an unspoiled wilderness, innocent and unsullied like this."

"And a wild girl who lived there in harmony with nature until other less sensitive humans arrived and destroyed it," he astonished her by finishing the tale.

"You've read it?" Her eyes widened.

"Contrary to your ideas about me, I'm not an illiterate street punk or a woodsy barbarian," he said shortly and leaned back in the seat to turn the key in the ignition.

The doe and her fawn, startled by the sound, snapped alert and a second later bounded gracefully into the greenery.

"I never said..." she tried to protest but he cut her short as he shifted into drive.

"Look, I'm not any happier about this arrangement than you are." He pressed the accelerator hard and swung the Jeep around a rain slickened curve in the lane with a ferocity that made Allison clutch her seat in the open, doorless vehicle. "And once the will is read, I will gladly and with much pleasure, personally see you onto the next flight to Ottawa. But for now, let's struggle for a truce."

He slowed the Jeep to a respectable speed and looked over at her, one eyebrow raised. Allison eased her fingernails out of the cracked upholstery, paused a moment, then nodded. "Truce," she said.

When the Jeep jolted out onto the lodge grounds a few minutes later, she felt her breath catch in her throat. She'd forgotten how beautiful it was.

The rambling single story log structure with its full length front veranda facing the river was surrounded by verdant lawns glowing vibrant green in the rain darkened day. Behind it were two other log structures, the caretaker's small cottage where she recalled Heath lived with his mother, and a large, barn-like building that housed the generator that provided power for the lodge and served as a storage shed.

The estate's only other structure, the boathouse where her grandfather had died, was further down river, hidden in the trees. Allison felt a shiver wash over her and returned her attention to the lodge in an effort to quell her disquieting thoughts.

Her gaze fell on the huge fieldstone chimney that rose from the ground to beyond the peak of the roof on the end facing the driveway. She felt a burst of painful nostalgia at the sight. The last night she'd spent with her grandfather in the lodge had been before a blazing fire on that hearth ten years ago. They'd listened to the rain bucketing down on the roof and he'd told her stories about the birds and plants and animals that were at home on his bit of wilderness. He'd explained he'd named the area the Promise because the day he'd bought it he'd made a solemn vow to protect both it and all its inhabitants as long as he lived.

Allison stopped right there in her reminiscences. She was beginning to have feelings she couldn't afford to welcome at this point in her life.

Heath braked the Jeep to a halt near the rear entrance and got out. As he paused to take her suitcase from the back, Allison hurriedly released her seat belt, slid her legs out over the side, and struggled to the ground, her skirt riding up shamelessly. By the time he joined her, however, she'd managed to pull it back into place and was standing waiting for him as intact as she could be in pouring rain, her once elegant black suit sodden, water dripping off her nose, her feet encased in ridiculously huge rubber boots.

"Come on," he yelled above the sudden deluge. "Let's get inside."

Seconds later they stood just inside the back door and dripping onto a hand hooked rug. Once she caught her breath and was able to look about, Allison discovered she was as impressed as she had always been as a child by the lodge's kitchen with its lengths of spotless counters and cupboards, its built-in range tops and wall ovens with rows of gleaming pots and pans hanging above them, its double refrigerator-freezers, and its pair of dishwashers.

The room, like the rest of the lodge, was paneled in knotty pine that complemented the long, slender planks of its birch flooring. A row of windows above the stoves and double sink offered an excellent view of the manicured lawns and carefully pruned forest at the back of the lodge. Jack Adams had spared no expense to make the room as convenient and enjoyable as possible. After all, he'd always said, a contented cook was a good cook and his guests deserved no less.

As she'd been taking in her surroundings, Heath had put down her suitcase and removed his dirty work boots. Now he straightened up.

"Come on," he said. "I'll show you to your room. You should get out of those wet clothes and into a hot shower right away."

"Thanks," she replied with alacrity, the idea sounding like a piece of heaven.

She stepped out of the boots that had successfully managed to shred the feet and ankles of her panti hose and followed him through the long dining room. It was still furnished with a long, antique mahogany dining table, matching chairs, and beautifully hand carved side board that she remembered from childhood served as a buffet table. A series of gleaming hot trays, now cold and empty, still graced its top. China cabinets along the back wall were filled with dishes adorned with wildlife motifs which many years ago Jack and Maud had had especially made for the lodge. The front wall was a length of garden doors which offered an unobstructed view of the river. Everything, she was delighted to observe, fairly glowed with care.

Then Heath was leading her down the familiar corridor beyond the dining room. Six guest rooms with full baths were on each side. At the end, behind a closed door was her grandparents' private suite.

Comprised of a large bed-sitting room and bath, her grandparents' apartment had been a welcoming place. Allison recalled the big four poster bed thick with quilts and pillows, a small fireplace in one corner, couch and easy chairs deep and soft and cozy enriched by her grandmother's hand embroidered pillows. From the patio doors on the river side, you could watch the North Passage flowing by in all its changing moods and vital moments. In spring, as today, swollen with water from melting mountain snows, it would be roaring furiously past, sweeping fallen branches and other bits of winter's debris with it. In summer, gently tamed by the warmth of the advancing season, it would dance and gurgle happily along, a mere pussy cat of the raging lion it had been when freshly released from winter's frozen grasp.

Allison sighed as she stood staring at the closed panel and was embarrassed when she realized Heath had opened the door of the first guest room and was waiting for her to proceed him inside.

"Sorry," she murmured. "I was reminiscing."

"About Jack," he said putting her suitcase down at the foot of the wide, quilt covered bed.

"And Gram," she replied looking about the room and being pleased to find it little changed.

The old fashioned bedroom suite with its wide dresser and mirror, sleigh bed, and maple rocking chair made it as homey and welcoming as she remembered all the guest rooms had been. She ran her hand slowly over the rolled wood of the bed's footboard, a faint smile on her lips. "Gram loved this house, every inch of it."

"And you?" Heath had returned to the doorway and stood watching her with a measuring gaze.

"I never stayed here long enough to form an attachment." She snapped back to the moment and faced him coldly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get out of these wet clothes."

"Of course, Ms. Armstrong. You can use one of the guest robes you'll find in the bath." He swept her a mocking bow and went out, closing the door softly behind him.

Allison turned and strode into the bathroom, unbuttoning her suit jacket with a violence that all but ripped the hand covered buttons from its front. The truce declared between them only minutes before was already straining at the bit.

Fifteen minutes later she came back into the bedroom, swathed in one of the lodge's long white terry robes, her freshly shampooed hair blown dry by the drier provided. To her surprise her makeup and toiletries were neatly arranged on the dresser but her suitcase was nowhere in sight.

She opened her door and looked up and down the corridor. Nothing.

Hearing noises from the kitchen she headed that way. Heath or his mother must have removed it she reasoned. Strange, Mrs. Oakes hadn't been at the funeral or at the lodge door to greet her. As she recalled, Heath's mother had always been a warm, friendly woman very different from her cold, obnoxious son.

As she passed through the dining room and glanced outside toward the river, she noticed the rain had slowed to mist but fog was once again wrapping itself cloyingly about the landscape. Although the lodge was cheerfully warm and she could hear the crackle of a wood fire from the living room hearth, she shivered. Thank goodness Mrs. Oakes was on the premises. Being alone in such eerie conditions with the last man to see her grandfather alive would not be a heartening prospect. As she pushed her way through the swinging door into the kitchen, however, Heath was alone in the room. He was stirring a pot of something steaming on the stove.

"Where's your mother?" she asked, surprised.

"In England." He turned to her, spoon in hand. "My grandmother was a war bride and Mom's always wanted to trace her roots over there. The trip was a gift from Jack. His last just before he died."

"You mean we're alone here...no guests, no housekeeper, just us?" Allison was appalled.

"That's right." He returned his attention to his cooking as he continued calmly, "Mom always wanted to know where she'd come from. Her mother had been a war bride who died with my grandfather in a boating accident before my mother was old enough to ask them about their family. When Jack discovered he was seriously ill, he warned me not to tell Mom about his condition. Then he bought her a ticket to England with all the expenses for a six week stay included. He made me promise that if anything happened to him while she was away I wouldn't let her know. He didn't want her abandoning something she'd wanted to do all her life for a situation she couldn't help or prevent. He understood the importance of family roots and traditions."

"This is incredible, totally incredible!" Allison threw up her arms in dismay. She'd been only half listening to what he was saying after his initial announcement that they were alone.

"He also made me promise there'd be as little fuss about his passing as possible...no wake, just a simple service at the church the day after he died, then burial in that beautiful meadow with his Maud, " he went on, unperturbed by her words or actions. "Under those instructions, Mom never could have gotten here in time, anyway."

"Mom will be furious when she finds out!" Allison was barely hearing him, her mind still overwhelmed by the fact that they were actually alone.

"She knows." He turned back to his cooking, placed the lid on the pot he'd been stirring, then faced her again.

"What? No way! Why would she allow me to come here knowing...?"

"I think she considers us both mature, reasonable adults." He shrugged and leaned back against the counter to meet her anger squarely "Don't you?"

She felt rather than heard the sarcasm in his words and wanted to fly in his face like an enraged feline. With a supreme effort she managed to control the impulse and quell her anger.

"Well, of course she does," she replied adjusting the shawl collar of her robe. "There's absolutely no reason why we can't bury the hatchet for a couple of days and manage to cohabitate peacefully. Nevertheless, I'll call her in the morning and let her know everything is alright."

"You'll have to go to town to do that," he replied. "We didn't have a telephone when you were here ten years ago and we still don't. Jack always figured having one would only be an unnecessary intrusion. And the cellular ones don't work up here because of our location."

"You mean the only way to contact civilization is still that old CB he keeps...kept in his office?"

"Right."

"Then I guess my parents and Paul will just have to take it on faith that I'm okay. I'll be on my way home soon enough and..."

She paused then and listened intently. "Is that the dryer I hear? You're doing laundry?"

"Not exactly," he replied bending to check something that was wafting a mouth watering fragrance from the oven. "I noticed your suitcase had gotten drenched during the drive here in the back of the Jeep. So while you were in the shower, I removed your toiletries and dumped your wet clothes into the dryer."

"You what?" Allison couldn't believe her ears.

"Well, I assumed you'd need dry clothes after your shower..."

"You idiot!" Allison bolted past him and into the laundry room. Yanking open the dryer door, she stared in horror at the mixture of white and colored clothing tangled into a huge, hot ball.

With an outraged cry she pulled out a piece of red cloth and rushed into the kitchen, wielding the crumpled garment like a flag.

"Look, just look!" she yelled. "This dress was especially designed and tailor made for me! Now NO ONE could wear it!"

"That's your dress?" He gazed at it in innocent amazement. "It must be a snug fit."

"You fool! You can't just dump clothes indiscriminately into a dryer!" she raged. "I had silk and pure wool and heaven only knows what other fine fabrics in that suitcase! Now they're all ruined!"

"Not all." He calmly returned his attention to the pots on the stove. "You did have a couple of pair of jeans and a sweatsuit or two. They should be okay. I'm not so sure about some of that insubstantial underwear, though."

"Ahhhhh!" Allison crumpled the dress in her hand and turned to stalk back into the laundry room. The man was hopeless.

She had just finished sorting her dried clothing into two stacks, one she'd mentally labeled wearable, the other hopeless when he appeared in the laundry room doorway.

"Dinner," he announced pleasantly, a large slotted spoon in one hand, an oven mitt on the other. Somehow seeing this pseudo Grizzley Adams in such a domestic moment tickled Allison's sense of the ridiculous. Tarzan in an apron would have had the same effect. It made her, at least partially, forgive him for her shrunken wardrobe.

Carrying the pile of clothing she felt she might still be able to squeeze into, she followed him into the dining room and saw two places neatly set at the long table, one at the head, the other, the first place to its right.

"I'll try to find something more appropriate," she said, "and be right back."

"Fine," he replied turning back into the kitchen. "I'll get our plates."

When she returned five minutes later in jeans, pink sweatshirt, and running shoes, he had already placed two steaming plates on the table. He'd lighted candles near them and in the gathering gloom of a foggy spring twilight their flames cast bewitching shadows about the room. With any other man on earth, the situation would have been incredibly romantic Allison thought as she slid into the chair he held out for her at the head of the table.

"Mmmmmm." She couldn't help closing her eyes and inhaling the delicious fragrance. "I hope this tastes even half as good as it smells. I'm ravenous."

"Good," he said taking a decanter from the sideboard and pouring white wine into each of their long stemmed glasses. "The asparagus and rice are my doing. The Chicken Kiev is from the freezer. My mother prepared it along with a huge repertoire of her other famous goodies to keep me from starvation while she's away. Enjoy."

They ate mostly in silence, both hungry and both unwilling to risk an attempt at polite dinner conversation. Words between them had a way of swiftly degenerating into nasty remarks and personal insults.

"That was excellent," Allison had to admit when she had finished the meal.

"Thank you," he said, rising and picking up both plates. "Coffee in the living room? I've a got a fire going in there."

"Sounds good," she said getting up.

Touching remembered furniture and pictures along the way, Allison wandered slowly toward the adjoining living room. In the archway that separated dining and living areas she slid open the bifold doors that divided the two. And caught her breath.

Had this room always been as wonderful as she wondered in awe? Had she, as a child, simply been unable to appreciate it?

The big room lined with varnished pine and floored with gleaming birch glowed golden in the soft light of the flames on the wide fieldstone hearth that dominated the room. A long, chocolate colored couch and oak coffee table filled the area immediately in front it it. On the opposite wall a well filled bookcase stretched from floor to ceiling. To its left a closed door lead to what Allison remembered was her grandfather's office.

Scattered elsewhere around the spacious room in friendly conversation groupings were matching easy chairs, an end table each with its own oil lamp as the centre piece.

A pair of large hurricane lamps sat on the mantel as well. Allison remembered her grandfather had not permitted the installation of electric lights in that room. He'd wanted his guests to experience the romance of a pioneer ambience, albeit in gracious, homey surroundings.

Home. The thought rose up suddenly to describe her overall impression of the place. But that was ridiculous. Home for Allison Armstrong was a fourteen room house in one of Ottawa's most exclusive suburbs with a heated swimming pool and walk-in closets. Home was a sprawling three story brick structure that had won its designer Canada's top architectural award. Home was a half hour drive from the stable where she boarded her horse, Allison's Pride, an elegant Kentucky bred chestnut hunter with a family tree that would impress the most discriminating of equine enthusiasts.

Home definitely wasn't this simply designed log hostelry in the backwoods.

Pulling herself out of her thoughts, she crossed the room and curled up on the couch to stare into the flames crackling on the hearth.

"Coffee." Heath walked into the room with a hand carved wooden tray holding a pot and mugs with pheasant motifs. He placed it on the table in front of the fire and sat down beside her to pour dark, steaming liquid into the cups.

"Cream, sugar?" he asked politely, glancing over at her.

"Just cream, please." She was becoming increasingly amazed at their present relationship. Moments of polite conversation were becoming possible. That had to be the duplicity of maturity, nothing more. Intelligent adults didn't go about constantly snipping at each other, no matter how much they disliked their companion. It certainly wasn't because they were starting to care about each other, care enough not to want to hurt each other. No, it was merely the demands of civilized society, a society definitely a large cut above what this jungle creature had come from.

She felt a glow of satisfaction at her final thought. Her animosity was alive and well, not in the least weakened by an excellent wine, a delicious dinner, or rich, perfectly perked coffee in one of the most romantic atmospheres she'd ever experienced.

"When is the lawyer scheduled to read Gramps' will?" she asked as he handed her the smoking mug.

"Tomorrow," he replied sitting down beside her but at a respectable distance.

"That should suit you. You'll be able to leave on the four o'clock flight. I know you're anxious to get back."

She felt his gaze on her and raised her own to meet it. He had to be the sexiest man she'd ever met and she hated that fact.

"I have a job interview in Toronto on Friday," she blurted in an effort to get a handle on the effect he was having on her. "And Paul lives there. He's an investment banker."

"Figures." He took a sip of his coffee.

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" Allison bristled.

"Business administration honors graduate with a major in accounting. An investment banker is exactly the kind of guy someone like you would become involved with."

"How did you know my academic standing?" She stared at him in surprise.

"Jack was really proud of you," he said locking his gaze on hers. "He bragged more than a little bit. Said it was a grandfather's right."

"And did he ever brag about you? I understand you didn't do too badly at university either. In fact, I remember his calling Mom and Dad on the day you graduated and proudly telling them how well you'd done."

"I didn't know he'd done that." Heath turned to her, his tone softening. "But then," he looked back into the flames. "I would have understood if he hadn't. It's not always easy to be proud of a kid you took out of a juvenile correctional facility." He glanced back at her and caught the shock in her expression. "Surprised? You'd have to be after all those stories I fed you about my being the leader of a street gang, far too cool to ever get himself arrested with all its inherent indignities and then thrown into jail. They were all just a vast collection of lies, designed to seduce a spoiled rich girl looking for a short walk on the wild side before she went back to her nice, safe mansion in Ottawa."

"Gramps took you out of jail?" Allison forced herself to ignore his cutting sentence. She hadn't the courage to open that wound...yet. "Why would Gramps take someone out of prison to live with him? "

"You know the story. He needed a housekeeper. My mother was simply the only qualified one he could get who was willing to take on the hours and responsibilities required in an isolated place like this. I just happened to be part of the package." He shrugged and raised his cup to his lips.

"But you said you were in jail at the time..." Allison was having difficulty taking in all he was telling her.

"Jack made arrangements to have me released into his custody so that my mother wouldn't have to leave me in Halifax when she took up her new position here. Jack understood the importance of a family sticking together."

Allison caught the innuendo in his last sentence and arose quickly to go to the hearth and watch the flames dancing over the logs.

"Don't," she said, the word as sharp as the crackle of the bone dry wood in the fire.

"I wouldn't if you didn't need to be constantly reminded of what was important to your grandfather," he said setting his cup aside and getting up also.

"Oh, so now you're the great ghuru on families!" She whirled on him, eyes snapping sapphire sparks. "A juvenile delinquent who had to inveigle his way into my grandfather's life to find one! Well, after the reading of his will tomorrow, you'll have to get busy and find yourself another meal ticket! Maybe you should call Candace Breckenridge. She seems to have an interest in you and your talents!"

"Mrs. Breckenridge? Get serious!"

His lips tightened and he bent to throw another log into the fire. When sparks and flames leaped up, Allison jumped back.

"If you can't stand the heat..." He straightened up and turned to her, eyes narrowing.

"I'm perfectly fine," she retorted brushing a few flecks of ash from her shirt.

"Well, good, because tomorrow at lunch time Matthew Chamberlain, Jack's lawyer is coming to read that all important will. It's the only time I'll be free. The rest of the day I'll be tied up getting things ready for the guests that will start arriving in a couple of weeks."

"Why should that matter?" Allison swung back to face him. "Only those mentioned in a will have to be present."

"Matthew requested I attend," he said meeting her gaze squarely.

"So you're to inherit...something."

"Probably," he replied adjusting the screen in front of the hearth.

"You were alone with Gramps when he died, weren't you?" Allison slowly turned back toward the couch.

"Yes," he said. "He died up at the boathouse while we were fixing one of the canoes. He collapsed and passed away within minutes. He suffered very little the paramedics assured me when they arrived."

"And there was no other witness, no autopsy," Allison murmured, suspicions beginning to swarm over her like angry bees.

"What are you saying?" Heath swung her about to face him, his expression savage with outrage. "That I killed Jack to inherit the small remembrance he probably left to me?"

"How do you know it's small?" Allison's apprehensions escalated like a hot air balloon. "Maybe he left you money, a share in the lodge. Either would provide a convicted criminal like yourself with the means to get out of here and back to where you belong in style!"

For a moment only the crackling of the fire on the hearth and sound of the river roaring past filled the room.

Then Heath threw back his head and laughed uproariously.

He's mad, Allison thought in horror. She glanced toward the brass poker in its stand beside the fireplace. Ms. Armstrong in the living room with a poker. She fitted her own name into a conclusion for the game of Clue she'd played with alacrity as a child. Frantically she wondered if she had the strength and agility necessary to carry out the deed in real life. Apparently she was about to find out.

Chapter Three

"Can you seriously believe that I murdered Jack for his old salmon rod?" His hilarity had settled to a smug chuckle as he sank back onto the couch, shaking his head in disbelief. "You must have majored in Agatha Christie in university. Man, what an imagination!"

"Gramps left you a fishing rod?" Allison was astounded.

"Yes," he said freshening his coffee. "Years ago when I caught my first salmon on that rod and Jack showed me the right way to release it back into the river, he said he'd leave it to me in his will. He always kept his promises."

"But how do I know you're telling the truth?"

"You don't." He shrugged carelessly. "I guess you'll just have to wait until tomorrow for validation."

In an effort to get out of the situation, Allison turned and went to the bookcase. Darkness smothered with fog had replaced the gloomy twilight. Beyond the garden door, the lodge seemed swathed in impenetrable black. Not a single star was visible.

In an effort to keep the intense feeling of isolation that was threatening to overwhelm her at bay, she pulled a book from one of the shelves and whirled back to face him.

"The Last Will." She waved it flippantly in is direction. "If I remember correctly, a man is murdered by a prospective heir. I think I'll climb into bed and refresh my memory of the plot."

As she sauntered out of the living room, thumbing through its pages in a pretense of a casual confidence she was far from feeling, he called after her, "That's a Christie, isn't it? See if it mentions anything about a twenty-year-old salmon rod as a motive. Dame Agatha generally used bigger gains as motives, if I remember correctly."

Allison's lips tightened as she crossed the darkened dining room. Her fingers gripped the novel with a vengeance.

Once inside her room she snapped on the light and was pleasantly surprised to find Heath had activated the electric heat, probably when he had left her to prepare the coffee. Even though it was the first of May, a rainy night in this area could be unpleasantly chilly, even frosty.

He had his moments she admitted grudgingly as she remembered his battle with the tractor to her grandfather's burial site, his back breaking work as he filled in the grave, his courteous treatment of her mother, the excellent dinner, and now this cozily warm room.

Then she pulled a bit of shriveled silk that had once been a nightgown from the clothes folded in the rocking chair and grimaced. But then he had others...

Another bit of pink, this time in a floral pattern caught her eye and she gingerly drew it free. A rose patterned flannel pajamas top! Good lord, her mother had actually succeeded in secreting those ugly things in her luggage after all!

When Myra had suggested warm sleepwear might come in handy on their trip to New Brunswick, Allison had laughed. They'd be staying at a motel in town for two nights for heaven's sake. And she, Allison Armstrong, was accustomed to the sensation of silk against her skin in bed.

But at that point she hadn't been expecting to be left in the backwoods or for a barbarian named Heath Oakes to destroy all her finery in a single dryer cycle.

What the heck, she thought giving the garment a cracking flap to straighten it out. No one was going to see her in them and it was only for one night. Tomorrow evening at the latest she'd be on a plane headed for the nation's capital and a whole new wardrobe. She burrowed deeper into the pile and found the bottoms.

Dragging the flannel suit along like a child dragging a teddy bear, she went to the window, pulled the drapes against the fog and darkness, and suppressed a shiver that hadn't been caused by physical cold.

Five minutes later she climbed into the sleigh bed, pulled the quilts snugly about her, adjusted the shade on the bedside lamp, and settled down to read The Lost Will, flannel pajamas and white cotton gym socks cozy and comforting in the inhospitable night.

The digits on the clock radio beside her bed indicated 9:15 p.m. Normally Allison Armstrong wouldn't be in bed for at least another two hours. This particular day, however, had been exhausting with the early morning flight out of Ottawa, the difficulty in renting a car at the small town airport, the emotional impact of the funeral, that surreal pilgrimage to the grave site in the fog and, later, drenching rain, and finally, this enforced cohabitation with the person she detested most on the face of the earth. It had made the warm cocoon of room and bed welcome at an early hour. She was turning page twelve in her novel when the book slipped from her hands and she slept.

She awoke with a start. Surprised to realize she'd been asleep she glanced at the bedside radio and was amazed to see midnight registered on its face. Then a slight sound from somewhere in the lodge made her freeze. Someone or something had broken in!

Heath had called out that he could lock the doors when he went out to his cottage for the night and she felt certain that, with his concern for the lodge and the attention to detail he'd already exhibited, he'd done just that.

A bear! she thought. A ravenous, fresh-out-of-hibernation bear! But a bear would have had to break glass to get in and she'd heard nothing like that. Also, whatever it was was being very careful, moving quietly now out of the kitchen she guessed from the direction of the sound, and across the dining room, into the living room, probably...her mind clicked into gear...toward the office. A robber looking for money in the obvious place! A miserable lowlife about to steal from a man he no doubt knew had just died.

Incensed at the idea, Allison pulled a flashlight she recalled her grandparents had always furnished in each guest room from the drawer of her nightstand and snapped off the bedside lamp she'd left burning when she'd fallen asleep.

She hesitated a few seconds until her eyes became accustomed to the dark; then, heart pounding so furiously she feared it was audible, she slid out of bed and tiptoed across the room.

Carefully she unlocked the door and eased herself out into the corridor. The rain and fog must have cleared, she thought, as she saw moonlight streaming across the dining room.

Easing her way slowly forward, she saw a thin shaft of light stretching out onto the living room floor from the all-but-closed office doorway. She'd been right! It was a burglar, a bit of scum who couldn't wait until Jack Adams was cold in his grave to make his move. `Outrage instantly overcame fear. She'd teach this miserable trash to violate her Gramps' possessions!

Holding the two-foot-long flashlight above her head like a club, Allison moved stealthily on stockinged feet across the shadowy living room. At the office door she paused, every drop of adrenaline charging furiously, her body rigid and ready.

She couldn't see the person inside. He or she was hidden by the nearly closed door. The last drop of sane logic she possessed futilely tried to tell her it would be best to take a look at her opposition before she attached. Then she kicked open the door, yelling like a banshee, and leaped full force on the figure bending over a computer connection.

"Hey!" As the pair tumbled to the floor, Allison recognized his voice. Suddenly she was even angrier than when she'd visualized a total stranger violating her grandfather's home.

How dare he creep about her family's lodge at night? How dare he rummage about among her grandfather's private business files!

The flashlight had crashed to the floor when he'd half-turned, startled at her attack. His shoulder upraised in a reflexive gesture of defense had knocked it from her grip. Still she tried to land a blow against the side of his head with a clenched fist.

Feline swift, he caught her wrist and pulled her arm to her side. Her left hand he'd somehow already immobilized behind her back. At this vital moment all her self defense skills seemed to have deserted her.

"Let me up, you...you...crude, insensitive bum!" she sputtered as she lay trapped beneath his lean, powerful body. "How dare you go through Gramps' office! It's private, it belongs to his family, not you! Not to a money grubbing gigolo like you!"

She looked up into his eyes and froze in her struggling. Something in those brown, untamed eyes narrowing with outrage galvanized her.

"Money grubbing gigolo, is that what you think I am?" He was breathing heavily but she knew it was from fury, not physical exhaustion. "Okay, I'll give you a sample of what I have to offer! Then you can decide if the ladies are getting good value for their dollar!"

His mouth came down over hers in a brutal kiss, his body moved to cover hers with its hard, virile length.

"No!" She tried a muffled protest but he held her fast, tongue probing, body moving over hers in a slow, primitive motion that almost instantly became irresistibly arousing. Instinctively she responded, her lips and body softening beneath his sensual assault, her spirit unable to protest. In a flash she was spun away into a realm of sensual intensity she'd never known existed. Logic, common sense, animosity all dissolved like ice in a microwave.

Then, as swiftly as it had begun, it was over. In a single, lithe movement he was free of her embrace and on his feet, standing over her. His face registered disgust as he held down a hand to help her to her feet. "Good value or what?"

"Street trash!" she cried ignoring his offer and scrambling up on her own. "You haven't changed at all! How could you..."

"How could I what?" The brown eyes were amber slits. "Defend myself? Offer you proof of the validity of your accusations? And since I obviously am just exactly what you believe me to be, I know all the signs. You liked it, rich lady. You liked it a lot!"

"I did not!"

He shrugged, turned away, and knelt again to resume his work on the computer connection.

"I want you to leave..."

Her entire body still reflexing shamelessly and involuntarily from his assault, she could only sputter.

"Not until I find out if the lodge has a mortgage hanging over it," he muttered plugging in a connection. He drew a deep, exasperated breath as he looked at the monitor brightening on the desk. "James Wilcox dropped an innuendo to the effect that the Promise is heavily mortgaged and if the person who inherits doesn't manage to meet an upcoming balloon payment, it'll go on the auction block in less than a month."

"That real estate agent said that?" Allison's anger at Heath was instantly overshadowed by this new menace. "I can't believe Gramps would ever mortgage anything. He remembered the Great Depression too well and never took out loans on anything."

"I don't believe it, either," he said trying another connection with no better results. "Still, forewarned is forearmed. We need the facts and I'm sure they're all right in this miserable pile of nuts and screws. I don't suppose you can get it going, can you, college girl?"

"As a matter of fact, I can." She knelt beside him, took the wires from his hands, and snapped them into the proper slots. The monitor instantly brought up the Windows logo.

"There," she said avoiding his astonished expression as she straightened and slid into the chair in front of the screen. "Now let's check out accounts payable."

"You sound as if you actually know something about this." He got up, pulled another office chair close beside her, and sat down.

"I'm an honors graduate in business administration," she said dancing her fingers over the keys. "I take it you majored in something else."

"Biology, ecology," he said, catching her biting challenge. "Nothing important."

"Okay, okay." Irritably she punched a few more keys and waited for the right screen to appear. "I think this is the point where we really must renew our peace treaty. We are obviously going to have to work together to straighten out Gramps' affairs and get a realistic handle on everything...at least until the will is settled. Agreed?"

She looked at him as he peered over her shoulder at the rapidly changing figures on the monitor.

"Agreed," he said, his attention on the screen, his tanned, clean shaven jaw and soft black hair too close to her right cheek for comfort. "Hey, look! There it is! No mortgages, not even an unpaid gas bill! Wilcox was trying a snow job on us. And a pretty clumsy one at that. Couldn't have known what he was up against when he tried to dupe the Armstrong-Oakes duo!"

"Apparently not." Allison was startled by the pleasant feeling his reference to the Armstrong-Oakes duo had started. She detested the man, didn't she? How could she get even a dash of warmth from his casual reference to them as a team?

"Scroll down," he said eagerly, involved now in reviewing the accounts.

"Just as I thought," he continued a few moments later, leaning back contentedly in his chair. "Jack left his finances in the same great shape he left everything on this place.. I won't have to start issuing checks for the Promise's expenses until the end of the month."

"You? Issue checks? What were you, anyway, his business manager? If so, you should have been a lot better informed about the state of his finances."

"I was his guide foreman, his camp manager," he replied. "Definitely not his business manager. Finances aren't a strong point with me. He simply gave me his power of attorney several years ago in case checks had to be issued when he wasn't around. I didn't want the responsibility but he insisted."

"I see." Allison turned off the computer and stood up. "So now you sneak around in the middle of the night trying to access his financial records to see exactly how large a check his bank account can handle."

"What happened to our truce?" He steepled his fingers and grinned ruefully. "This last one has to hold the record for brevity."

"Sorry." She walked to the door, then swung back to face him. "But why are you here in the middle of the night?"

"I couldn't sleep." He straightened up in his chair, then slumped tiredly forward. "I couldn't sleep with the thought of this place being in jeopardy. And I couldn't be sure until I checked out these accounts. Jack played his financial affairs pretty close to the vest. I had no knowledge whatsoever of them."

"So now you know," she said and turned to leave. "Lock the door when you go out."

She was crossing the living room when his shadow fell over her. Glancing back, she saw him lounging in the lighted office doorway, watching her.

"What?" she asked crossly.

"I've never thought I could be turned on by pink flannel," he said, his face suffused in shadow. "Until now."

"Ahhhhhhh!" She could only growl through her clenched teeth. The man was a lech. She wished she were wearing work boots so that she could stomp away.

Back in her room she locked the door and climbed into bed. Impossible creature, ruthless savage...the words were among her last conscious thoughts as she pulled the quilts up to her chin and settled once more for the night. The only good thing she could think of at that point was that tomorrow she'd be rid of him forever.

But as she drifted off to sleep, she was struggling to dispel the memory of his kiss and the thought that Paul had never once during all the time they'd been together come even close to making her feel the way Heath Oakes had in those few brief moment.

Well, wasn't the kind of relationship she had with Paul, the kind she'd always wanted...the safe, sure, controlled, no-fireworks type...after what that street trash had done to her all those years ago?

All the logic in the world, however, couldn't stop her from dreaming once sleep overtook her; dreaming of a tall, lean, muscular man of the jungle. Clad only in a loincloth, arms crossed on his hard, bare chest, he confronted her boldly in the green tunnel of foliage leading to the Promise, effectively blocking her way.

Angrily she ordered him out of her path. Then, as his gaze swept over her, she caught the gleam of sensual desire in his tawny eyes.

Her heart rate raced off, the bit of reason clamped helplessly in its teeth. She was melting like butter on a hot muffin when she realized she was wearing rain soaked pink flannel pajamas and oversized rubber boots. And while he seemed to be standing in dazzling sunlight, she apparently was directly under a cloudburst.

Then he was moving slowly toward her, as lithe and soundless as a panther, his gaze hot with primitive fire. Allison caught her breath and waited, understanding completely for the first time what true animal magnetism was.

But then he was passing her by, brushing her aside to embrace...Candace Breckenridge who was miraculously standing just behind her. As he was reaching to draw the eager woman into his arms, Allison awoke.

Once aware the experience had only been a dream, she raised herself angrily up on one elbow and proceeded to pummel her pillow.

"Blast him!" she cried softly. "The miserable womanizing tramp! Tomorrow, as soon as that lawyer reads the will and Heath Oakes is in full, legal possession of his fishing rod, I'll send him packing so fast he'll be dizzy!"

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