Chapter Eleven
S arah put her plans to move up the lake on hold, to take care of Alex for the next several days. She sat in the great room with him for hours each day. Sometimes they’d watch her how-to shows together, sometimes she would read to him, but sometimes they’d simply sit and talk—mostly about her, since that seemed to appease his growing restlessness. She didn’t know how it happened, but Sarah found herself telling Alex all about her life growing up on Crag Island, about her parents, and about the twelve years the Bankses had plagued her. She, however, was only able to get bits and pieces of Alex’s life, since every time she asked about his childhood, he always managed to turn the conversation back to her. The man should have been a CIA agent instead of an engineer.
Alex was initially an amiable patient, although he grumbled whenever he limped to the bathroom. He entertained his kids after school by checking their homework and planning their approaching Christmas vacation, just one week away, and told them hair-raising tales about his eleven-day hike through the jungle—though Sarah suspected he softened the desperate parts and embellished the heroic ones. All in all, she found dealing with Alex on a daily basis to be surprisingly easy and sometimes downright rewarding.
Like when she trounced him at chess eight games out of ten. She had teased Alex that just as in chess, being a successful innkeeper required not only discipline and strategy but the ability to recognize impending disasters and the smarts to head them off. And like when Alex sent her to the attic to find his scruffy old pack basket of ice-fishing equipment, and she had sat mesmerized as he replaced all the line on his fishing traps while explaining how they worked.
Sarah found herself looking forward to New Year’s Day, when ice-fishing season started. The next time she went to Mary’s store in Oak Grove, she was buying herself a set of ice traps so she could try her hand at freshwater fishing. It couldn’t be any more difficult than saltwater fishing, Sarah had blithely declared. This resulted in Alex issuing her a fishing challenge for New Year’s Day. The stakes? A kiss lasting at least two minutes if Alex won, an evening of dinner and dancing in Greenville if Sarah caught more fish. Sarah started rethinking her prize within minutes of shaking hands on their wager. Dinner and dancing was basically a date, wasn’t it? So who was actually winning what?
After six days of inactivity and being fed gallons of nutritious soup, Alex’s mood began to change from compliant to cranky. Sarah would just start on a chore when she would be called—not by the bell she’d given him but by a shout—into the great room. “Read to me,” he would demand. “Or give me a sponge bath,” he’d petition, his no-longer-swollen eyes now looking anything but pained. But the crankier Alex got, the more diabolical Sarah became. She would patiently read him articles from forestry magazines and engineering journals, instead of one of her romance novels as he kept asking for, and on more than one occasion, Sarah simply gave him his dose of pain pills and patiently waited until they put him to sleep. Then she would escape to the attic to work on another quilt hanging to send to Clara in New York City.
There had been a close call two days ago, when Alex had answered the phone and Clara Barton had asked to speak to Sarah. Sarah had immediately grabbed the phone and gone into her bedroom for privacy; Alex was the last person she wanted speaking to Clara. And though she knew Alex had been curious about who was calling her, he’d been polite enough not to ask, and Sarah hadn’t offered any explanation. She had learned long ago that the less said, the better. Too bad she hadn’t remembered that little truth when Alex had been probing about her life with Roland and Martha Banks.
Alex had spent the last six days lying on the couch, surrounded by enough Christmas decorations to fill the White House and staring at a Christmas tree large enough to be in Rockefeller Center, with plenty of time to think about the two men who had chased Sarah. Just thinking of her jumping on those men would make Alex’s blood boil, sending cold chills down his spine.
John Tate had been called the next morning, and he had come out and taken Sarah’s statement, reassuring her that the men were likely long gone after Alex’s foolish attempt to catch them. But as soon as Sarah had gone upstairs to make the beds, John had told Alex and Grady and Paul that he would contact the border patrol as well as Daniel Reed, the local game warden, to pass on the information, and that he would start making their logging roads part of his daily rounds. Ethan hadn’t been there to hear John’s concerns, because he hadn’t returned after storming out that first night. John said he’d seen Ethan in Greenville and that if he ran into him again, he’d bring him up to speed on what was happening. Two days later, Ethan had stopped into the house just long enough to pack some clothes and camping equipment. He’d had nothing to say to Sarah—who had gone to her room when he’d come through the back door—and very little to say to Alex, except to inquire how he was feeling.
Alex hadn’t pushed the issue, knowing Ethan would apologize to Sarah as soon as he figured out why he’d gotten so mad at her to begin with.
But it was Sarah’s daily escapes that really puzzled Alex. She seemed to take a lot of walks, though she assured him she was staying in the woods and not walking their road. But sometimes when she disappeared, Alex would hear soft footfalls coming from the attic. She would always check to see if he was sleeping—which he always made sure he appeared to be—and then she would quietly head up to the attic. He figured Christmas presents were her secret there.
Alex marked his page, stuffed the romance novel between the couch cushions, got up with a muttered curse at his still sore knee and ribs, and limped to the office. It was time he went back to work, even if that meant sitting at a desk instead of in his skidder. He sat down at his drafting table with a sigh and smiled in anticipation of his own present for Sarah, which was being delivered Christmas morning. Alex absently shuffled through the road maps he’d been working on before his accident, contemplating what he’d learned about his wife these past six days. He couldn’t decide if he was more amazed by her unbroken spirit, despite the nosedive her life had taken since her mother’s illness, or by her choice of reading material.
The romance novels had been a real eye-opener; the fact that he’d found them in the trash was even more enlightening. He’d read four in the last six days, sneaking them from under the sofa cushions when Sarah escaped outdoors or upstairs.
Alex felt he finally had an idea how Sarah’s mind worked. Hell, he certainly understood how their bedroom disaster had happened that first night. Some parts of those books were downright erotic. But they also presented an insight into Sarah’s indomitable spirit, if she considered the women in those novels to be role models. The heroines were intelligent, which Sarah certainly proved she was at chess; they were brave to the point of being reckless, which she had proved by jumping on those men; and they were hell-bent to go after what they wanted in life, which…Well, Alex wasn’t sure Sarah had mastered that trait yet. He wasn’t even sure Sarah knew what she wanted. She obviously wanted a family, judging by how she’d jumped at Grady’s offer to marry a dead man and adopt Delaney and Tucker. But what about the men in the books she read? Didn’t Sarah want a hero of her own? Didn’t she want to love a real live man, instead of just reading about it?
He’d been trying to get a few simple kisses since he’d met her, and she shied away from even that small intimacy. What in hell was she afraid of? Not him personally; she was way too prickly and provoking to be afraid of him.
Alex frowned as he reshuffled the maps, unable to find the one that showed the tote roads their construction crew had rebuilt this fall so they could move their operation there in February. He got up and searched Grady’s desk, the file cabinet, and the back wall of shelves, littered with everything from Delaney’s and Tucker’s school projects to broken skidder parts.
“Sarah. Sarah!” he shouted as he limped out of the office and over to the bottom of the stairs.
“Sarah!”
It was a good two minutes before she appeared at the top step, her face flushed with the cold of the attic, and softly asked, “What?”
“Have you been cleaning the office? I’m missing one of my maps.”
She shook her head. “Grady’s first rule when I came here was that I don’t touch his office,” she said as she came down the stairs.
Alex stepped out of her way, turning to walk back to the office. “Help me look, then,” he said. “I can’t find the map for the section we’re cutting in February.”
Alex turned to see Sarah stopped in the office doorway, her hands on her hips and her expression horrified. “It’s a wonder anyone can find anything in here, much less one single map.”
“I was working on it last week. It should be right here,” he said, frowning down at his drafting table.
“Maybe Grady has it in his truck,” she offered, stepping up to the large desk in the center of the room and scanning the mess of papers. “Or Ethan might have taken it when he came home. Maybe he’s camping out in that section for…for a while,” she finished softly, turning away to open a file drawer. But she didn’t turn fast enough for Alex to miss her look of sadness. “I don’t think Ethan has it,”
he said. “I was sitting on the couch the whole time he was home, and he never entered the office.”
“And Grady?” she asked with her back to him.
“He might have taken it,” Alex conceded, sitting behind the desk. “But he would have mentioned it to me. He knew I was working on plans for a bridge we need to build before the spring thaw.”
Sarah closed the file drawer, saw it bounce open, and used her shoulder to slide it shut as she looked at him. “Do you need a map to design a bridge? Don’t you just draw it out or something?”
“The map has the grades I use to determine the height and span of the bridge.”
“Grades?”
“Elevations,” he explained, “that show the slope of the land leading down to the brook.” He glanced at his watch and suddenly brightened. “We could go out to that section, and I could reshoot the grades. It’s only nine. We’d be back long before Delaney and Tucker get off the school bus.”
“Why we ?” she asked, looking alarmed. “Surely you’re able to drive now.”
“I need you to hold the elevation stick,” Alex told her, warming up to his idea. “And I’ll give you a driving lesson on the way out.”
Sarah’s expression went from alarm to horror, and she started backing out of the office. “You’re not giving me a driving lesson. Not in your condition.”
“What does my condition have to do with anything?” he asked, stalking her out the door.
“You’re going to get your good knee banged up right along with your bad one,” she said, backing toward the kitchen. “That’s assuming I don’t smash your face into the dash.” She stopped with her back against the swinging door. “I nearly wrecked Paul’s fancy Mustang, and Grady was shaking so badly after my lesson with him that he could barely speak. Ethan didn’t even last to the main hauling artery; he made me walk home. I just can’t get the hang of driving.”
Alex folded his arms over his chest, being careful of his ribs. “It’s not rocket science, Sarah,” he said with a reassuring smile. “There’s a gas pedal, a brake, and a steering wheel. If you can coordinate three pots cooking on a stove while something is roasting in the oven, right along with everything else it takes to put on a meal, you can drive.”
“It’s the engine,” she muttered, lifting her chin. “I can’t seem to run anything with an engine. I broke four power-saw blades and burned up the sander when I made the hot-tub cabinet.”
“You run an electric mixer, don’t you? I don’t see food flying all over the kitchen when you make cookies.”
She had started to back through the swinging door but stopped. “That’s because the mixer has speed settings, not a gas pedal. I can set it on whatever number I need, and it doesn’t get away from me.”
“Then we’ll set the shifting lever to low gear, just like on your mixer,” he said, stepping forward. He didn’t relish the idea of driving to the new cutting in first gear, but if that’s what it took, he’d simply grit his teeth. “Put on some long johns and a pair of tall boots. You’re going to have to wade across the brook if it’s not frozen solid yet, so I can shoot grades on the other side.”
She looked as if she wanted to shoot him.
“I need to get that bridge designed so our road crew can build it by February, Sarah.”
“Can’t you call Grady on the radio to see if he’s got your map?” she asked desperately.
“I already called him,” Alex lied, determined to give her a driving lesson. “He’s not in his truck.”
Sarah gave him a look of such defeat that it was all Alex could do to contain his grin. She shot him one last scowl, then marched into her bedroom. Alex limped over to the back door, grabbed his jacket off a peg, and headed out to the machine shed to get his surveying gear—merrily whistling the whole way.
Sarah sat behind the wheel of the red pickup with her sweaty hands balled into fists on her knees, fighting the urge to smack Alex upside the head with her dented roaster. She had spent six days practically glued to his side, and now he wanted her to spend all day with him in the front seat of a truck and then in the woods.
It was bad enough that she couldn’t even escape him in her sleep; the man kept invading her dreams, which had been growing progressively naughty. She hadn’t read a romance novel in weeks, and she still kept waking up hot and bothered, hugging her pillow to her breasts, her heart racing. She’d gotten so stressed lately that she had actually run into the bathroom and thrown up three nights in a row. She’d had to resort to taking naps in the middle of the day, because she spent the night staring up at the dark ceiling, literally aching to feel his skin rubbing against hers, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his warmth making her blood boil.
“Ready to fire her up?” Alex asked as he slid in beside her.
She was so fired up she was going to combust! Sarah dropped her head so her hair hid her face, reached out and twisted the key, and heard a loud screech.
Alex immediately reached over and pulled her hand off the key. “You only hold the key halfway on while the glow plugs heat up the fuel, because this is a diesel engine,” he told her. “That was the starter you heard grinding. So now, put your foot on the brake,” he instructed. “And once the glow plug light goes out, start the engine.”
Sarah did what she’d been told.
“Good. Now, while your foot is on the brake, pull the shifting lever all the way down until the arrow is on the one.”
Sarah brought the shifting lever to one.
“And slowly release the brake.”
She did that, too, and nothing happened. The truck merely idled in place.
“Good. Now put your foot on the gas, and press it down only a little bit,” he instructed. “Just so that we start creeping forward.”
Sarah stepped down on the gas, the engine revved violently, the truck lurched forward, and she immediately slammed her foot on the brake pedal. Alex’s shout of “Easy!” ended with a grunt when he slammed into his seat belt. “Put it back in park.”
Sarah wrestled the gear shift back up to the P, staring at the dash.
“O-kay,” Alex said. “Let’s try the gas pedal while we’re still in park. See that large dial to the left of the speedometer? That’s the tachometer. It tells you how fast the engine is turning. Softly step on the gas again, and see if you can make that needle stop on 2000.”
She finally looked over at him. “Why?”
He smiled. “Because it’ll give you something to aim for. Never mind about anything else. If you can keep that tach under 2000 when you’re in first gear, the truck won’t go faster than fifteen or twenty miles per hour.”
Sarah eyed the tachometer. “Why didn’t Grady or Ethan or Paul tell me about that dial?” she muttered, stepping down on the gas, only to see the needle shoot up to the number five.
“Ease back on the pedal,” Alex shouted over the roar of the engine. Sarah relaxed her foot, and the tachometer needle dropped to 1000. She pushed on the gas again, and the needle shot up to the number four this time. She smiled, eased up on her foot, and the needle wobbled down below the two before settling just a hair’s width above it.
“That’s it,” Alex said. “Feel it in your foot, Sarah. You control the engine; it doesn’t control you. Practice bringing the tach up to 3000, then down to 1000.”
Sarah slowly curled and uncurled her toes inside her boot and watched in amazement as she was able to make the needle go to any number she chose. “That’s it?” she said with a delighted laugh. “It’s as simple as picking a number on the tachometer and using my foot to set the needle on it?”
He nodded, his own smile reflecting her excitement. “Just like your food mixer,” he said. “Forget about all the other dials, Sarah. You keep that tach under 2000 rpm, and you’ll be able to control the truck.”
“But I can’t watch the dash and the road,” she pointed out. “I have to see where I’m going.”
“That’s right, but with only a little practice, you’ll know from the sound of the motor what the tach is doing. The numbers are only a benchmark. See that red line under the four and the five? If you keep the needle in that red area very long, you could blow the engine.”
Sarah eyed the tachometer.
“Okay, foot on the brake again, pull the shifter down into first gear, then slowly step on the gas until the needle reaches 1500 rpm. That’s a good speed to start out.”
Sarah pushed down on the brake, pulled the gearshift down to the one, then stepped on the gas and shot them forward with a jerk. But instead of slamming on the brakes, she relaxed her foot while glancing at the tachometer, then out the windshield at the driveway, then back at the tachometer. The needle finally started hovering between 1000 and 2000.
“I’m driving!” she yelped, breaking into a smile as she steered toward the lane. “And we’re not crashing. If I wasn’t so busy driving, I’d hug you!”
“I take rain checks,” he said with a chuckle, pulling back the hand braced on the dash and relaxing into his seat. “That’s it. Keep glancing at the needle, and keep it around 1500.”
Sarah snuck a peek at the speedometer and saw she was going only fifteen miles an hour. Well, hey, it sure beat the heck out of bouncing in and out of the ditch at fifty. Holy smokes, she was driving!
“What’s your tach reading?” Alex asked loudly two minutes later. “It’s up to nearly 4000, Sarah. Ease off the gas.”
Sarah pulled her foot off the pedal, and Alex had to brace his hand on the dash again when they nearly lurched to a stop. “That’s good; you didn’t slam on the brakes this time,” he said, only to suck in his breath when she overcorrected and they jerked forward, the needle shooting all the way to five. But Alex didn’t say anything, likely because he was busy cursing under his breath as they continued down the lane—sometimes with the engine revving loudly in the redline, sometimes with the truck barely creeping along.
“Stop and put it in park,” he said when they came to the main artery. “I’ll take over from here.”
Sarah stepped on the brake a little too hard, pitched them both into their seat belts, and shifted into park as the truck rocked to a halt. “But I’m just getting the hang of it,” she said, looking over at him with a frown, just now noticing the fine beads of sweat on his forehead.
“Yes, you are,” he said as he unfastened his seat belt and opened his door. Then he gave her a boyishly crooked smile. “And eventually, I’ll get the hang of your driving.”