The Wrong Man Page 2

  Straightening the rows of desks, she relished the smells of glue, markers and modeling clay that lingered in the classroom. Almost daily she thanked her lucky stars that she had found the work she was born to do and that it paid enough for her to live simply and comfortably in one of the most beautiful places in the world.

  In preparation for the upcoming visit from master storyteller Louise Running Wolf McCann, Libby removed the photographs of plants of the Northwest from the bulletin board, replacing them with those of indigenous animals. “Weezer,” as the Blackfoot woman was known to generations of Whitefish children, would share Native American animal legends with the class.

  Returning to her desk, Libby gathered the day’s worksheets. She frowned when she noticed that little Rory Polk had left half the answers on his reading sheet blank. Bless his heart, he tried so hard to hide, burrowing into his desk and making himself even smaller, hoping to escape observation. Libby couldn’t shake the nagging sensation that something might be wrong at home.

  A glance at her watch told her it was time to meet Lois Jeter, her best friend and colleague, in the office if she wanted a ride to the garage.

  She hurried down the hall, noting with pleasure the red and green links of construction paper making a merry border for various holiday art projects. Mary Travers stood outside the office, her hands resting on the shoulders of a scrawny fourth-grader. “Jeffrey, we’ve talked before about snowballs. Are we going to have to have another conversation?”

  The boy hung his head. “No, ma’am.”

  “Good. I know throwing snowballs is fun, but it can also be dangerous, especially with so many little ones in the area.”

  Libby watched Mary turn the boy around, pat his back and send him on his way. The principal, a short, bouncy woman with youthful skin and salt-and-pepper hair drawn back into a simple chignon, ran a tight but loving ship and was universally respected.

  Libby approached her. “That went well.”

  Smiling, Mary shook her head. “Boys. It’s so hard for them to resist temptation.” She accompanied Libby to the office. “How was your day?”

  “Almost perfect. Just like all of them.”

  “You can say that even after the Josh Jacobs caper?”

  “That goes with the territory. Poor little guy. He was so embarrassed.”

  Mary’s voice lowered. “We couldn’t reach his mother until just before school was out.”

  “Let me guess. She was irritated he was sick?”

  “That would be an understatement. Some people should simply never have children.”

  Libby winced. Why were people like Mrs. Jacobs given the gift of children when she wasn’t? Quickly, she controlled her emotions. “That’s one reason we’re here. To pick up the pieces.”

  “Lib,” a voice rang from down the hallway. “I’ll be right there.” Redheaded Lois Jeter, the physical education teacher, scrambled into her all-weather coat and hurried toward them. “Sorry, the gym was a disaster area today. I just now got the mats hung up.”

  “We really appreciate you,” Libby assured her with a grin. “On these wintry days, the kids need to work off all the steam they can.”

  Mary turned toward Libby. “I understand you and Doug are going to work off some steam this weekend in Missoula.”

  Hearing “steam” and “Doug” in the same sentence caused butterflies to converge in Libby’s stomach. It didn’t help that Mary was beaming approval that had nothing to do with Libby’s skillful handling of a second-grader’s intestinal upset.

  “Missoula?” Lois cocked an eyebrow.

  “We’re going to the symphony.”

  Lois threw up her hands in playful despair. “And here I thought you were going to hit the wild club scene.”

  Libby did her best to match the mood. “What? And miss Mozart? I’m looking forward to a bit of culture.”

  “So is Doug, my dear.” Mary patted Libby’s shoulder. “So is Doug.”

  On the ride to the garage, Libby was grateful that Lois’s chatter prevented her from dwelling on the expectant look in Mary Travers’s eyes. Worse yet, she didn’t want to consider why Mary’s approval bothered her.

  TRENT SAT at the table in the kitchenette alcove, poring over figures. In front of him was Chad’s printout of estimated start-up costs, profit-and-loss statements from the last three years, and a breakdown of income generated by the various services Swan Mountain Adventures offered. Because of recent forest fires in the area, the current owners were making them a heck of a deal. Chad had the people skills and the business background to handle accounting and marketing, and Trent knew equipment and maintenance. They shared knowledge of the outdoors and expertise in guiding. With hard work and a bit of luck, the venture looked like a winner.

  Setting down the pencil, he stared into the living room, where Kylie sat on the floor, Barbies positioned around her in a protective circle. She mumbled dialogue as she picked up first one and then another of the well-endowed dolls. “Mommy doesn’t want you to wear orange with red,” he heard her chide the platinum-blond figure. She shook her head disapprovingly. “They don’t match.”

  He closed his eyes briefly. Ashley had been a clotheshorse, occasionally straining their finances with her need to look bandbox perfect, but he had to give it to her. Heads had turned when she walked into a room. Kylie’s prissiness, on the other hand, worried him. It was as if she’d seized on her appearance as a means to…what? Control her world? Keep Ashley’s memory alive?

  “Daddy?”

  Trent’s eyes snapped open. “What, baby?”

  “Are you doing homework?”

  “I guess you could call it that.”

  She set down the doll and approached him, her forehead wrinkled. “You don’t go to school.”

  “No, but I work.”

  Sidling up to him, she put her thin arm around his neck. “With tools. You’re a carmpenter.”

  Her mispronunciation of the word never failed to amuse him. “Car-pen-ter.” He ruffled her hair, then drew a deep breath before launching the subject he’d been avoiding. “What if I didn’t want to be a carpenter any longer?”

  Eyes widening, she looked at him as if he’d just emerged from a UFO. “Not be a carmpenter? What would you be then?” Before he could begin his carefully reasoned explanation, she hurried on. “I know! You could be the boss, like Grandpa Gus.”

  He pulled her up on his lap, snuggling her against his chest. “No, honey, I couldn’t. Even if I were the boss, I would still miss doing all the things I love.”

  “You don’t love carmpentry?” She sounded surprised, as if fathers weren’t supposed to change—ever.

  “No, honey, I don’t. I love hiking and skiing and fishing and being out-of-doors.”

  “Oh.” She nodded her head in understanding.

  “You want to play, not work.”

  Play? Was that what this was? An immature need to recapture his adolescence?

  “What if my work felt like play?”

  She giggled. “That’s silly, Daddy.”

  “What if I could be—” he hesitated, his mouth dry “—happier?”

  Lifting one small hand to his cheek, she studied him. “We’re sad, aren’t we? We miss Mommy, right?”

  “But Mommy would want us to be happy again, to laugh and play.”

  “Okay,” she said, as if the matter was settled.

  Okay? If only it could be that simple. He had gone back and forth about the best way to break the news to Kylie, but now that the time had come, the words stuck in his throat. He licked his lips, cuddled her closer, and then, with a deep breath, began, “I have something important to tell you, and I want you to listen carefully.”

  “It’s about Mommy, isn’t it?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She rubbed her nose. “I know. About your carmpentry.”

  “Yes. Yesterday I told Grandpa that I won’t be working for him anymore.” Much as he’d dreaded telling Gus his plans, Trent had been relieved wh
en, despite his obvious disappointment, his father-in-law had claimed to understand. Now he said to Kylie, “I’ve accepted a job in a place called Whitefish that will make me much happier. I think you’ll really love it there.”

  “We’re moving?”

  Swallowing hard, he nodded.

  She jumped from his lap and stood glaring at him, her fingers working the lace trim of her sweatshirt. “No!”

  “But, honey—”

  “I’m not going.” Her protruding lower lip sent a powerful message.

  “Just now you said it would be okay for us to learn to laugh and play again.”

  She stamped her foot. “But right here.”

  Tension knotted Trent’s gut. “You’ll like Whitefish. It’s where I went to school.”

  “I don’t like fish!”

  “There are lakes and mountains. You can learn to ski and snowshoe and—”

  “No.” She shook her head back and forth, her straight blond hair fanning the air. “We can’t leave.”

  Trent tried desperately to see the situation from his daughter’s point of view. She’d had too many changes lately. Did he have any right to inflict one more on her, even one that would free him in ways that made him light-headed with relief? “Why not?”

  Kylie stood stock-still, looking at him as if he had just asked the world’s most ridiculous question. “Because Mommy’s here.”

  His chest ached. “Sweetie, we’ve been over this so many times. Mommy is dead. Even though she is never coming back, she is always with us in spirit, but she isn’t in Billings.”

  He watched, thunderstruck, as Kylie’s face screwed up into a red ball before she screamed at him, “She is too! She’s at that place with the stone. The c-cemcementery!”

  “Oh, honey.” Although Kylie struggled against him, he gathered her back into his arms, where she remained stiff and unmoving. “The decision has been made.”

  She stared at the far wall. “I’m not going.”

  This was harder than he’d imagined. “Where else would you live except with me?”

  “With Grandma Georgia and Grandpa Gus.”

  Trent bit his lower lip, knowing full well his in-laws would welcome that plan. “Wouldn’t you miss me?”

  She shrugged, unwilling to meet his eyes. “You could visit me.”

  It was time for a dose of reality. “I wouldn’t be able to visit very often. I’ll be working.”

  She didn’t move.

  “I’d really like you to come with me. In Whitefish there’s a big lake and a ski slope. You could go to the same school where I went as a little boy.”

  Her lips quivered and she wrung the hem of her shirt.

  “Looks like we have a problem, doesn’t it? I’m not happy being a carpenter. You don’t want to leave Billings. What do you think we should do about this?”

  “What would you do there—in that place?” she mumbled.

  Patiently he explained about the adventure-outfitting business. About his love of the out-of-doors, which he wanted to share with her. About how lonely he would be without her.

  “Where would we live?”

  “To start with, in Weezer McCann’s guest cabin.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Weezer? Who’s that?”

  “I’ve told you about her. Remember, she’s the lady who helped Grandma Lila and me when I was a little boy. She was like my second mother. You’ll love her. She tells the most wonderful stories.”

  Kylie twined her fingers around his wrist. “What about?”

  Good Lord, had he actually succeeded in capturing her interest? “Native American legends about birds and fish and animals. Why they’re named what they are. Why they do what they do.”

  “Like beavers and bears and stuff?”

  “Exactly.”

  Just when he thought he’d convinced her, she scowled. “No,” she said, adamantly shaking her head. “I have to stay here.”

  Gently he ran a hand over her soft hair. “Can you tell me why?”

  She sniffled against his shirt. “Mommy.”

  He held her close, feeling her fists curl against his chest. “Mommy is in heaven. Don’t you suppose she wants us to be happy?”

  Seconds passed. Then she looked up at him. “I ’spect so.”

  “Our love for Mommy and our memories of her can go with us anywhere in the whole wide world, right?”

  A teary nod.

  “So whaddya say we take Mommy with us to a place where you and I can be happy? She would love it. It’s beautiful country filled with wildflowers, big green trees and gurgling streams.”

  She squirmed to the end of his knees and regarded him thoughtfully. “Did you say mountains?”

  “Spectacular mountains.”

  “Ice cream?”

  The non sequitur made him laugh. “Scoops and scoops of it!”

  She looked directly into his eyes. “Daddy, I like it when you laugh. Do you think you can laugh again when we go to that fish place?”

  Laugh again? Dear God, had he been that out of touch? He reached for her and enfolded her in a huge bear hug. “Yes, sweetie, I’ll laugh again—lots more. And so will you.”

  “Okay, then.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “I’m glad you’re coming with me.”

  “But there’s one thing.”

  At this point he would gladly have presented her with the entire state of Montana had it been within his power. “What’s that?”

  “I know Mommy’s with us in spirit, like you said, but what about that cementery? Could we go say goodbye before we move?”

  Trent’s heart shattered. “Tomorrow, honey.”

  With the wisdom given only to children, she had hit upon the one act he now realized he, too, needed to perform.

  LIBBY DUCKED her head as she and Doug climbed the steps of the bed-and-breakfast following the symphony. Brahms and Mozart had done little to soothe her nerves. Instead, she’d spent most of the concert thinking about whether her insistence on two rooms had jeopardized her best chance for love and family.

  “Feel like a nightcap?” Doug asked in the lobby as he removed her coat. “There’s a wonderful gas fireplace in my room—and a bottle of Amaretto.”

  Doug, always considerate, deserved her enthusiasm. “It’s hard to turn down a cozy fire and an after-dinner drink.” She smiled. “Not to mention one very nice man.”

  “Good,” he said, his eyes warm with affection.

  The fireplace cast light and shadow over Doug’s room, which was decorated in deep burgundy and green tones. Settling her on the love seat, he filled two goblets, then sat beside her, raising her glass in a toast before handing it to her. “Here’s to you, Libby.”

  The toast was definitely more than a casual “Here’s to ya.” Libby watched him sip from his glass, then sit back in satisfaction, before she took a swallow, letting the almond sweetness linger on her tongue.

  To fill the silence, she started a discussion of the concert. She’d always loved music, even as a tiny child. A dim memory returned, a long-lost vignette. Her mother sitting in the corner of the high-ceilinged living room, the sun falling on her dark curly hair as she bent to the harp, the melody of the plucked strings sending a thrill through Libby’s small body. How old had she been? Four? Five? Gazing now into the dancing flames, she treasured the immediacy of the image before recalling the dark days that followed. When she was six, her mother died, and the silenced harp gathered dust in the corner until her stepfather had finally sold it.

  “You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden,” Doug said, taking her half-empty glass and setting it on the coffee table beside his.

  “Just remembering.” His arm settled around her shoulder. “Music does that for me.”

  “Evocative,” he said quietly.

  “Very.”

  “Feel like telling me about it?”

  She shrugged.

  “You don’t talk much about the past.”

  What was the point? Talking didn’t change
anything. “No.” She tried a cheery smile. “The present and future are so much more compelling.”

  She observed a question in his eyes, but he didn’t press her, for which she was grateful. “I could get interested in discussing the present and the future,” he whispered, drawing her into his arms. “Starting with tonight.” He lowered his head and began kissing her.

  Libby’s awareness hovered somewhere above and beyond the pressure of his mouth, the tingle of his fingers running through her hair. He’d kissed her before, of course, but this was different. Not unpleasant, but no longer merely platonic.

  She tried to relax, to give in to the sensation of being held, of arousing a man again. He cupped the back of her head, deepening the kiss, his tongue seeking hers. Involuntarily, an erotic response flared within her, irritating her. She didn’t want this, yet at the same time, she did. It was the best thing that could happen. Doug made her feel desirable. Safe.

  When he withdrew, he framed her face with his hands, and his eyes were glazed with desire. “You’re sure about the two rooms?”

  She bit her lip. Was she? Sooner or later… Suddenly it all seemed too pat, too contrived—a seduction scene. Then, out of the blue, another memory hit her—this one about spontaneity, blood-pounding need and the frantic urge to bare her body in a mindless frenzy. She froze.

  “Libby?”

  “Not tonight.” The words sounded like a parody of every bored, headachy housewife.

  “Soon?” he asked hopefully.

  She ducked her head. She wanted a husband. A home. Tears darted to her eyes. Children. Especially children. “We’ll see.”

  Doug would make a wonderful father. Sadly, she knew from bitter experience that the same could not be said about some men.

  One in particular.

  Almost unconsciously, she pressed her hands over the flat of her womb, sensing the emptiness within.

  From somewhere outside her, she heard Doug’s voice. “I care about you, Libby. I can be patient.”