LOST WITH YOU - Lisa Ann Verge
CHAPTER ONE
“C’mon, Bessie, hold on for me.” Casey Michaels winced as the van lurched over a rut in the dirt road. “The cabin isn’t far now, unless the GPS has gone wonky.”
She frowned as she glanced at the dashboard clock. She’d been driving for six hours. The rusty van shook like an old washing machine. Her lower back ached, and her calf muscles had gone tight from pressing the gas. She flexed her hands over the steering wheel and tried to will Bessie to stay in one piece just a little bit longer. She couldn’t afford another broken axle or overheated engine, like when she’d covered the off-road races in the Mojave Desert last month. She had a tiny window of opportunity to interview this guy for her latest assignment, and she was already two hours late.
A flash of sunlight caught her eye. She hit the brakes and peered through the trees toward a glint of sunlight off the hood of a Jeep. The cabin beyond it, amid the pines, looked like something out of an Abe Lincoln theme park. Her editor hadn’t given her much information about Dylan MacCabe, other than the guy lived in the middle of nowhere, and tomorrow he would set off on a canoe adventure into the Adirondack wilderness.
This had to be his place.
Nudging Bessie into the shallow tire furrows that wound between the trees, Casey pulled her sputtering van up the driveway to stop beside the Jeep. If the man matched the setting, he’d be full-bearded, decked out in plaid, and honed by years of hewing logs. She shut off the van to a series of sputters and coughs and reached into the back seat to drag her laptop case off the pile of all her worldly possessions. Then she nudged the rusty door open with a foot.
Approaching the porch, she called out, “Mr. MacCabe?”
No response drifted out from within the cabin, though the inner door was open. That didn’t mean he was home, she supposed. She’d never locked the door of her own rural home, either. A prickling threatened behind her eyes at the thought, but Casey willed it away. Now was not the time to remember all she’d lost.
All she’d given away.
Cupping her hands against the battered screen, she searched for signs of life amid the plaid couches and braided rugs. A distinct thunk echoed, coming, as far as she could tell, from behind the cabin. Hopping off the low porch, she headed around the side, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind an ear before smoothing the travel creases of her skirt. The hacked-up remains of an enormous tree came into view as she turned the corner.
She scuffed to a dazzled stop. In the midst of the carnage stood a man of six feet or more, sporting gray office slacks and an oxford button-up shirt. The cotton of his shirt strained across massive shoulders. He twisted at his belted, narrow waist as he raised his arms. With an economy of movement, he hurled the blade of an ax with whistling swiftness down upon a propped log, the ends of his tie flying loose.
The ax split its target before she found her voice.
“Mr. MacCabe?”
The man’s head shot up, blond hair bright in the sunlight, as he shoved away a split log with a foot.
“I’m MacCabe.” He pinned her with a Viking’s marauding gaze. “You lost?”
“Not anymore.” She forced one foot in front of the other, her heart dancing like a rabbit in her chest. “I just found the man I’ve been looking for.”
Still gripping the ax in one hand, MacCabe dropped his arms to his sides. As he raised an eyebrow, an uncomfortable heat crept up her chest. She should have worded that differently. She was a writer, damn it. She hadn’t meant to be provocative. She became keenly aware of the perspiration on her chest and the dust of travel on her skin.
Steady, girl.
“Casey Michaels.” She stopped a modest—safe?—distance away. “I’m here on assignment for American Backroads.”
Recognition flickered. “You’re the reporter.”
“Yes.”
“From that trade journal.”
“American Backroads,” she repeated.
“It’s got a guy in neon-green swim briefs on the home page this month.”
She nodded with a shrug. She wasn’t responsible for choosing the website design, just for writing content.
The Viking lodged the blade of the ax in the chopping block with a one-handed stroke. “I’m MacCabe.” He stretched out his hand. “Call me Dylan.”
“Casey,” she said, as he slid a hot, gritty palm across her hand. “I can’t wait to interview you about your upcoming