Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,15
send one mighty Oakes packing.
She let the last bird snatch the remaining bit of crust from her fingers before she arose and headed for the small log cottage Heath and his mother shared.
The inner door was open. When Allison went up the three short steps she could see a small, neat kitchen through the screen and hear music playing softly from a radio on the counter near the sink.
“Heath?” she called through the mesh door. “Are you in there?”
The only answer was the announcer’s voice at the end of the song, telling his listeners not to be deceived by the fine morning. More rain and fog were on the way.
Presented with an opportunity, Allison’s curiosity flared. Easing open the screen she slipped inside.
The kitchen held an apartment-sized refrigerator, stove, and a cozy breakfast nook built into one wall below a window that looked out into the forest. Hand-quilted placemats with a wildflower design decorated its Formica tabletop and matched the seat and back cushions of a rocking chair near the opposite window, the ruffled curtains, and a tea cozy covering a pot on the counter. Framed needlepoint floral designs decorated the walls above the cupboards.
How could the woman who had made this welcoming place also be responsible for the creation of Heath the Barbarian? Allison shook her head and tiptoed down the short hall at the back of the room.
The open door at its end revealed a small, tidy bathroom. Two others, one to her left, the other to her right, she guessed led to bedrooms. Opening the door to her right, she saw a bed covered with a dusty rose spread that matched the window drapes and a mahogany dresser with neatly laid-out toiletries, a large wicker basket of needlepoint materials nestled against its side. She closed the door and turned to open the one opposite.
That room contained a large bed covered with a patchwork quilt, plain white window curtains, a wide dresser with only a hairbrush on its polished surface, a well-filled floor-to-ceiling bookcase against the rear wall, and a chair and desk in one corner.
Papers neatly stacked on the latter intrigued her. She tiptoed over to get a better look.
To her disappointment, they appeared to be purely business, letters from people seeking reservations or information about the Lodge, repair estimates, competitive prices on canoes, paddles, groceries, and the like.
Something pink in the wastebasket beside the desk caught her attention. A letter. She couldn’t resist. She bent and picked it up. The delicate blue handwriting and light scent of expensive perfume assured her it was no business document. Her heart racing, she began to read.
It was a love letter filled with reminiscences of intimate moments spent with none other than Heath Oakes. Allison felt a hot gush of anger crawling up her neck and face. It was signed, “All my love, C.B.” Candace Breckenridge?
Nausea roiled in her stomach. Accusing Heath of this kind of liaison was one thing; finding absolute proof was another.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
She whirled to face Heath framed in the doorway. The piece of pink paper slid from her fingers and fluttered to the floor.
“Nothing…I…that is…”
“I wouldn’t call reading someone else’s personal mail nothing.”
He crossed the room and snatched up the letter to wave it under her nose. “This is none of your business, Ms. Armstrong. None at all.”
“Your turning the Chance into a spa where lonely middle-aged married women can live out their romantic fantasies is,” she exploded back at him, although inwardly she was unnerved by his blazing eyes and clenched fists. “This is a respectable lodge, not some…some…”
“So you think this just confirms what you suspected, that I’m a backwoods gigolo who fools around with the wives and partners of the men who come up here?”
“Are you telling me none of what is in that letter ever happened, that this woman is lying? Oh, come off it!”
“Show me where it says we had an actual affair, that we slept together. Go on, show me.”
Allison re-read. He was right. Nowhere did Candace refer to an actual affair. But that wasn’t proof.
“I happen to know this woman.” She glared up into his mocking expression. “She’s much too smart to commit anything to paper that could be used as evidence in a divorce court. You see, Nature Boy, while she might enjoy a two-week fling with you and your muscles, Candace Breckenridge is not about to risk her comfortable lifestyle for you.”
“She never did.” He pulled the letter from her hand and threw