Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,33

She held her ground, too, and stayed, suitcase in one hand, Jack’s leash in the other, where she was. “Dr. Henderson informed my mother of your accident and she—my mother, that is—decided someone from our family had to come to see if the Lodge needed a temporary caretaker. Dad has a full caseload, and Mom is winding up a major fundraiser. I was the only one she saw as being available.”

“Myra. I should have guessed.”

He dropped his hand and advanced toward her, limping. When he got close enough for her to see his features in the fading light, she gasped.

“My God!”

His left eye was black and swollen, his lower lip split, and his right cheek purpled with bruising. “I had no idea…”

“I’ve survived worse.” He looked down at Jack, his features relaxing into a crooked grin. “Who’s this handsome lad?”

“This is Jack.” No snide remark, no cotton ball joke. Surprising.

“Hello, Jack.” The dog gave a sharp little bark, sat, and held up his paw.

“Nice to meet you, too.” He accepted the offer. “Guess you’re named after someone pretty special. Come on.” He straightened, extended his hand for her suitcase, and grimaced. Hurting more than he wants anyone to know.

“Never mind.” She pulled it back from him.

“Fine.” He turned toward the Lodge, limping. “You don’t have to keep that poor guy on a leash up here. Let him stretch his legs. What did you have to do to get Marty Mason to drive the two of you up here?”

“Money convinces.”

“Doesn’t it always. Come on, Jack,” he continued as she released the dog. “I think I have a nice, juicy bone in the refrigerator.”

With a joyful bark, the poodle bounded along beside him, apparently delighted with his new friend.

Right. Alienate my dog, why don’t you. What great protection he’ll be once he’s been plied with his favorite food. Hefting her suitcase, Allison followed.

“That man, Marty Mason, didn’t seem to be overly fond of Gramps or anything to do with this place. Why?”

They were at the Lodge steps. As he mounted the first one, Heath turned back on her. “Because I fired him a month ago.”

“Again, why?” Allison looked up at him.

“He was belligerent and not adhering to our environmental code and goals. Satisfied?” He continued on up the steps and pulled open the door.

“Satisfied.” She followed him. “He told me there’s a sasquatch living on the Chance. Actually, we did glimpse something on the road…”

“Yeah, right.” Heath’s response was a sneer as he stepped aside to let her proceed him inside. “One foolish woman sees something furry in the bush and right away we have a sasquatch. It would have passed like the farce it is if she hadn’t spread the story like jam on a hot muffin.”

“And that hurt business?”

“What do you think?” He snapped on a light to relieve the twilight gray spreading into the room.

“Do you have guests now?” She set her suitcase to one side and removed her jacket.

“No, not for another ten days. Don’t worry. My mother will be back by then, and I’ll be able to handle my work.”

“Go into the living room and put a match to the fireplace.” She wasn’t about to let him start hitting her with sentimental junk. “It was always kept ready, and I’m sure you’ve continued the practice. I’ll get food. There must be homemade soup either in the freezer or refrigerator. It used to be a staple here.”

“Refrigerator,” he said, gingerly removing his plaid mackinaw. “Beef barley. So you do remember some of the traditions.”

“Some of them.” She pulled the bottle of pills Dr. Henderson had given her from her pocket and handed them to him. “From Dr. Henderson.”

He snapped off the cover, shook a few into his hand, and gulped them down.

“Hey, how about reading the directions?”

“He-men don’t read instructions.” He choked.

“Right. Besides your face…?” Allison headed for the sink and poured him a glass of water. She tried to keep compassion out of her voice as she got a good look at him in the kitchen light. He’d needed those pills.

“A few bruised ribs, a twisted hip, nothing life threatening.” He took the water and swallowed.

“Sit.” Allison shoved a kitchen stool over to him.

“What?”

“Sit. I’m going to take your boots off.”

“No way. I’m perfectly capable of…”

“Sure you are.” Her tone softened. “But it hurts, and there’s no need to punish yourself. So let go of that macho pride and sit.”

“Okay, okay.” He sank back onto the stool. She knelt and began to unlace his left boot.

“This could