Forever Wife And Mother

If his gaze was hard, his heart was even harder. The Lockhart place should, by rights, belong to him. Just as it should have belonged to his father, and his father’s father before him. His father’s hatred of Malcolm Lockhart was matched only by his own. And it was a hatred that would stay with him till his dying day.

“Mr. Ryland?”

He closed the drapes brusquely before turning. Mrs. Kincaid was looking at him with a concerned expression.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “I said your name several times and you…didn’t seem to hear.”

“My mind drifted for a moment.” He strode to the bathroom door and swung it open. Everything was as it should be—spick-and-span, with fresh white towels, a basket of basic toiletries, clean glasses, a bottle of Evian.

“Breakfast’s at seven. Sharp!” He started toward the bedroom door. “I hope you’ll find the room comfortable.”

“It’s lovely,” she said. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Oh, one thing before you go…”

He turned at the door, his eyebrows raised.

“Will it disturb anyone if I have a shower? I’ve been traveling since dawn…. I’d really like to get cleaned up.”

“No problem. You won’t disturb me, I sleep like a log. And as for Will—you could drop a bomb next to the bed and you wouldn’t wake her.”

As he walked to the landing, he felt a pang of guilt. Seven o’clock was an early start for somebody as utterly exhausted as this young woman obviously was.

But he staved off the guilty twinges by reminding himself that if he hadn’t taken her in, she’d still be on the road.

And if she couldn’t manage to haul her skinny little body out of bed by seven, then she’d just have to go hungry!

CHAPTER TWO

CAPRICE woke next morning to the sound of a dog’s bark.

The bedroom was in darkness. She reached for her watch, peered at the luminous hands and saw that it was six-thirty. Lying back, she let her mind drift over the events of last night and grimaced as she recalled her panicky flight from Holly Cottage, scared out of her wits by nothing more than a bird—a crow?—that had tumbled down the sitting-room chimney!

She’d been appalled when she’d seen her reflection in the mirror. With her tangled hair and soot-smudged face, she’d looked like a street urchin. It was a wonder Gabe Ryland had let her through his doorway.

Gabe Ryland.

How different he was from the men in her social circle with their city suits and their GQ coiffures—men with pale smooth hands and smoother moves. Gabe Ryland was rugged and weather-beaten, with a hard, craggy face and black hair that hadn’t been cut in months. And in his sturdy jeans, hiking boots and no-nonsense plaid shirt, he’d been a walking ad for his Outward Bound business.

His hands, she remembered, were rough.

And his manners, she remembered, were rougher.

“You should find everything you need,” he’d said, and added bluntly, “if you don’t…you’ll have to make do.” Talk about uncompromising! And then, “Breakfast’s at seven sharp,” the implication being that if she turned up at one minute past, she’d have to go hungry.

And, she mused over a wide yawn, she was hungry.

She got up and padded to the window.

When she pulled back the drapes, she saw that dawn was just breaking. The eastern sky was bloodshot, and rosy light was creeping along the green valley and painting the unruffled surface of the river a glorious shade of pink.

It was going to be a perfect day.

And she just had time, she decided with a lilt of anticipation, to squeeze in a quick walk before breakfast.

“Fang, come here!”

Fang scrambled through a clump of ferns, and as he bumped against Will’s legs, she caught him by the collar. “Hush!” she whispered urgently. “Someone’s coming!”

She held her breath as she peeked out from behind the trunk of the oak tree, which was just a few yards from the fence. Cripes, if it was her dad she’d be in deep trouble. She wasn’t supposed to be on Lockhart land; he’d kill her if he knew she’d set foot on it.

He’d warned her never to cross the fence, warned her when she first became old enough to play outside alone.

“Why, Dad?” she’d asked, as they stood on their grassy slope and looked over the fence at the strip of forest that lay between the fence and the river.

“You don’t need to know why,” he’d told her. “Just remember, no trespassing on Lockhart land.”

And she’d obeyed him. For a whole month she’d done as he’d told her. But then one June evening Fang had taken off under the barbed wire fence chasing after a rabbit…and he hadn’t come back. There was a wooden stile close to the spot where he’d wriggled under. She’d perched on the top slat and waited. And waited. And waited. Not knowing what to do. And worried sick about him.

In the end, she’d gone in.

Just across the fence was a path into the forest, and she’d followed it, calling for Fang as she went. The path had soon led her to a log house, and in the garden she’d found Fang. But he wasn’t alone. He was with a lady. And the lady was petting him and cuddling him…and crying.

Will was happy to see Fang safe and sound but sad to see the lady cry. She went into the garden and told the lady who she was. She and the lady talked, and the lady—whose name was Emily—told her some secrets. When the sun went down, Emily walked through the trees with her as far as the wooden stile.

After that, Will took Fang to Holly Cottage as often as she could, but only between May and October and only when her dad was away. This was the first time ever that she’d risked going onto Lockhart land while he was home, and she really didn’t know what had brought her there today.

She hadn’t gone as far as the log house, though, because the Lockhart summer ladies didn’t start coming till the first of May, but she’d climbed over the stile and skipped down the forest path a bit with Fang.

And was on her way back for breakfast—was close enough to the stile to see it through the trees—when she’d heard someone up ahead.

Holding her breath, she peeked around the trunk of the oak tree. And her heart almost stopped when she saw a stranger on the other side of the fence, standing with one hand atop a fence post.

Fang barked.

Will got such a start she lost her grip on his collar, and he lurched from their hiding place and bounded to the fence.

Tail whisking like mad, he yelped ferociously at the stranger. She stepped back. Which made him bark even louder. On and on and on…

There was nothing for it, Will thought, frustrated, but to come out. If she didn’t, her dad might hear Fang and come to investigate.

So she put on her scowliest face and marched out of the shadows. Grabbing Fang’s collar, she ordered him to hush. Which he did. Then she held up the bottom wire and pushed him under the fence before climbing over the stile to the other side.

By the time she’d clambered over, the stranger had crouched down and was making friends with Fang, whose tail might well drop off, Will thought disapprovingly, if he kept wagging it that fast!

She frowned at the stranger, who wasn’t very big. And she was real skinny. She had blond hair that was scooped up in a high ponytail but would probably reach halfway down her back if it wasn’t. Her white T-shirt was tucked into her blue jeans, and she was wearing white Reeboks. Will had just finished giving her a good once-over when the woman stood up and fixed smiley gray eyes on her.

“Hi,” she said. “What a dear little dog.”

Will folded her arms over her chest and said, in a growly voice, “You’re trespassing. This is Ryland property. You’d best get off it real fast, before my dad catches you.”

The stranger looked past Will, across the fence. “I was just wondering,” she said, “where that path leads.”

“You can’t go down there, either. That property belongs to old man Lockhart—” Will stopped abruptly as her watch beeped an alarm. “Cripes,” she muttered. “It’s seven. If I want breakfast I’d better—” Dodging around the stranger and saying, “C’mon, Fang!” she hurtled away up the hill, not breaking her stride as she called over her shoulder, “Like I said, lady, you’d best get going real fast or you’ll be staring up the barrel of my dad’s shotgun!”

Caprice chuckled.

And started up the slope.

A tomboy, she mused as the child disappeared over the crest of the hill, but an adorable one, with that raggedy yellow hair, delightfully tip-tilted nose and lovely eyes. Mismatched eyes, one green, one hazel, and densely fringed with lashes the color of toffee.

Caprice paused and looked back when she reached the top of the slope. Over the tips of the trees, she could see three chimney pots. If that was Lockhart land, then that would be the log house. Holly Cottage.

What secrets might she uncover there? Would she find some clue as to why her father had deceived her? If not, she’d have to become acquainted with the locals in the hopes of finding someone who’d known him and would talk about him. Under the circumstances, it would be unwise to ask anyone outright if Malcolm Lockhart had been involved with a woman called Angela. Who knew what can of worms that might open up! No, better to play it safe, be discreet.

Heaving a restless sigh, she turned and walked on. At the lodge, she went in by the main entrance. She was hesitating in the foyer, unsure where to go, when the little girl shot out from the passage leading to the Rylands’ private quarters.

She skidded to a halt when she saw Caprice.

“Are you Mrs. Kincaid?” Her whisper was panicky.

“Yes.”

The child gulped. “Mrs. Kincaid, please don’t tell my dad you saw me on the other side of the fence. That’s Lockhart property and…” Her cheeks took on a guilty flush. “I was the one who was trespassing. Not you.” Taking a deep breath, she added in a rush, “I’m not supposed to go in there. If my dad found out, he’d be as mad as—”

“It’s okay,” Caprice assured her. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Oh, thank you—”

“Will!” Gabe Ryland’s voice thundered from somewhere in the depths of the lodge. “Did you find her?”

Caprice raised her eyebrows. “You’re Will?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, I thought when your father spoke of Will last night he was referring to…your mother.”

The child’s eyes became shuttered. “My mother’s dead,” she said. “It’s been just me and my dad since I was four.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry—”

“Will!”

At the sound of her father’s bellow, the little girl said, “Uh-oh! We’d better get into the kitchen if we want to eat. C’mon!”

She darted off, and Caprice followed her to the kitchen, which turned out to be small and cozy and bright, with windows facing east. The sun beamed in and cast its pink glow over a jade-green slate floor, granite countertops, maple cupboards and a maple island.

Fang was in a corner of the room, digging his nose greedily into a bowl of dog food, and Gabe Ryland was standing with his back to her at a round maple table set in a windowed alcove. He was wearing khaki shorts and a khaki shirt, and she found her gaze flicking in awe over his wide shoulders, his lean hips, his long, brawny legs. Talk about rugged! Talk about tough! Talk about powerful! She could well imagine this man leaping mountains in a single bound or overpowering a cougar with one twist of his bare hands.

He said to Will as she clambered onto her chair, “Did you find Mrs. Kincaid?”

“She did,” Caprice said.

He turned around, a coffee carafe in his hand. “Oh, hi, there.”

“Good morning,” Caprice murmured, adding with an edge of humour in her voice, “I hope I’m not late?”

“Rules,” he said, “are meant to be kept.” Amusement gleamed in his eyes—hunter green eyes that were so intense Caprice could almost feel them lasering into her soul. He glanced at his daughter. “Right, Will?”

The child wriggled uncomfortably in her chair, and to save her from being put on the spot, Caprice interjected lightly, “Some say that rules are for the obedience of fools and the guidance of idiots.”

“Without rules,” he returned as he poured coffee into two mugs, “the world would be an even crazier place than it already is.”

Caprice took the seat he indicated. “But surely there are times when we must break the rules—”

“It may be more difficult, at those times, to keep to them, but in the long run it works out for the best. As long as the rule is a good one to start with.” He returned the carafe to the coffeemaker and brought a rack of toast to the table. “Take mealtimes. If the rule is that we always sit down at a certain time and we all adhere to that rule, it makes the cook’s work easier.” His eyes teased her. “Don’t you think so?”

“What I think—” Caprice added milk to her coffee “—is that it’s far too early in the day for such a discussion.”

“Mrs. Kincaid’s right, Dad.” Will looked up from her bowl of cereal. “It’s far too early.”

“Outnumbered.” He held up his palms in surrender, and smiled.

He had a devastating smile. Wide, warm, sincere. A generous flash of blindingly white teeth, a merry twinkle of laughing green eyes, an irresistibly seductive charisma.

Caprice felt her pulse scatter in wild disarray and she struggled to get it back to its regular rhythm. Wherever this man went, she decided dazedly, he must surely leave a trail of broken hearts behind.

He rested his hands on his hips. “Mrs. Kincaid—”

She forced herself to pay attention. “It’s Caprice.”

“Caprice. What can I offer you? Bacon and eggs? Sausage, tomatoes, mushrooms, hash browns?”

“Thanks, but I don’t eat a cooked breakfast.”

“Lucky for you!” Will sputtered over a mouthful of her cereal. “’Cause Dad can’t cook worth a—well, he just can’t cook! Coffee and bacon burgers are his specialties—and toast—but he even sometimes burns the toast!” She giggled as her father put on a highly indignant expression.

“Young lady!” He waved a teaspoon at her. “You’d better remember which side your bread is buttered on or you’ll be sent off to boarding school—”

He broke off as the phone rang. Excusing himself, he crossed the room to answer it.

As he talked to someone, Will said confidently, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Kincaid, my dad would never send me away. He’d miss me too much. Also,” she whispered confidingly, “he couldn’t possibly send me to boarding school. We couldn’t afford it. He’s been saving every spare penny for years to buy a piece of riverfront property…if one should ever come up for sale. Which it doesn’t look like it’s ever gonna,” she finished in a rush as her father put down the phone. She looked up, all wide-eyed and innocent, as he returned to the table.

He sat across from Caprice. “That was Mark’s mother, Will. She can’t drive you and Mark to school today. I told her I’ll do it.” He shifted his attention to Caprice. “So once you’ve had breakfast and got your things organized, I’ll see you on your way. I’ll have to lock up here before I take off to pick up Mark. He lives quite a way from here.”

“Of course.”

Caprice was surprised to find herself reluctant to leave. Half an hour ago, she’d been feeling restless, impatient to get to Holly Cottage. But Gabe Ryland was a very intriguing man, and his daughter was delightful, and she was drawn to stay longer. Drawn to get to know them better.

But that would be foolish, she mused as she nibbled a corner of her toast. She had come to the valley to get some answers, and as soon as she got them she’d be gone. There was no point in getting emotionally involved with any of the inhabitants. No point at all.

“Tell me, Mr. Ryland,” she said, “how many staff do you employ here?”

“It’s Gabe. Staff? Half a dozen, give or take. The same people have been coming for the past several years. The housekeeper—”

“That’s Mrs. Malone!” Will said.

“—and a cook—”

“That’s Mrs. Carter, who also looks after me when Dad’s away.”

“—a housemaid and a waitress—”

“Jane and Patsy.” Will finished her glass of milk.

Gabe grinned at her. “An odd job man—”

“Sandy McIntosh.” Will set down the glass and swiped a paper serviette over her mouth. “He drives me to school when Dad’s away—well, he takes turns with Mark’s mom.”

“—and Alex Tremaine—”

“He’s my dad’s best guide and instructor, Mrs. Kincaid. He teaches people how to do rock climbing and mountaineering and canoeing and backpacking, and most of all, how to do white water, and like my dad he teaches people who go on the white-water expeditions. They learn how to read the river and how to paddle and how to be safe. I just can’t wait,” she added eagerly, “for next summer. My dad’s going to take me hiking in the wilderness for the first time. I’ll be nine by then. How old are you, Mrs. Kincaid?”

“Will,” her father chided her gently, “you know better than to ask a lady her age!”

Will grimaced. “Sorry, Mrs. Kincaid, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“No problem.” Caprice smiled as she gathered her dishes. “I’m going to be twenty-seven in June.”

“Dad’s eight years older than you are. And his birthday’s on the fourth of July. He always makes sure he’s home that day, and we have a gi-normous party, with fireworks.”

“Will.” Her father rose from the table. “If you’re finished, you should go to the guest lounge and—”

“Practice my piano.” Rolling her eyes, the child got up and carted her dishes to the counter. “I know, Dad.” She turned to Caprice. “Goodbye, Mrs. Kincaid, it’s been truly nice meeting you. And thanks for…you know.”

“My pleasure,” Caprice said.

As the child left, Caprice rose and carried her dishes to the counter.

“What was that all about?” Gabe bent over and slotted the dishes into the dishwasher.

“Oh, just girl stuff.”

“Ah.” He straightened. “You made friends quickly. Will’s usually much more cautious in her dealings with strangers.”

“She’s a sweetie. You’ve done a great job of bringing her up. It can’t have been easy for either of you—I mean, for a man to bring up a little girl, and for a little girl to grow up without her mother. Will told me….” Her voice trailed away as she saw him stiffen.

His eyes had become hard, his lips tightly compressed. She felt the air vibrate with tension. She had apparently said the wrong thing, but before she could even open her mouth to murmur sorry, he very pointedly—very rudely!—tilted his forearm and stared at his watch.

Caprice felt her cheeks grow scarlet, partly from embarrassment but more from indignation. “I’ll go now,” she said stiltedly, “and gather my things together. Then I’ll settle my bill and be off.”

“There’s no charge.”

“But—”

“It’ll only screw up my bookkeeping.”

His curt, dismissive tone riled her. She wasn’t used to being spoken to like that, and she didn’t like it. And now she didn’t like him, either!

But she was still a guest at his lodge.

Biting back a stinging retort, she spun on her heel and stalked from the kitchen.

She felt his cold gaze follow her but she’d gone only a few yards along the passage when she heard a frustrated, “Damn!” followed by the loud thump of a clenched fist being smashed against the wall or the countertop.

She raised her eyebrows. Temper, temper!

She was still wondering whether he was angry with her or himself when she reached the foot of the stairs and heard the sound of piano music coming from the lounge. Her mouth twisted in an ironic smile. Will was practicing.

And the piece the child had chosen was “Home Sweet Home.”

“Dad, where was Mrs. Kincaid going after she left the lodge?”

“I didn’t ask.” Gabe turned his Range Rover off the highway and up the Hoopers’ farm road.

“Where did she come from?”

“I don’t know. Why the interest?”

Will hugged her lunch bucket to her chest. “I’m worried about her. She looked sad.”

“Honey, the world is full of sad people. You can’t worry about all of them.”

“I don’t.”

He turned his head briefly and found she was looking at him with a grave expression. “But you’re worried about Mrs. Kincaid?”

She nodded.

He turned his attention to the road again. They approached the farm gate. “Well, don’t. You’ll never see her again, and anyway, worrying never did any good. It only burns up energy.”

“It’s a pity she doesn’t have a dog.”

Gabe felt a flash of amusement. “You think?”

“Oh, yes. Dogs make people happy.”

“Dogs are a lot of work.” He saw Mark running from the rambling old farmhouse to the gate. “They have to be fed and watered and walked and cleaned up after.”

“I’m not talking about the work part of it.” He felt her earnest gaze on him. “I’m talking about the feel-good part. When a person hugs a dog and strokes it and looks into its eyes, and the dog looks back and licks your hand and just be’s a friend…that’s what makes people happy.” He noticed she was so caught up in what she was saying, for once she didn’t wave to Mark. “I saw a program on TV one time and it said that having a dog around makes old people feel better, so I figured if it makes old people feel better it should work on sad people, too. And know what? It does.”

Gabe had been listening with only half a mind, but something in the intensity of her tone snapped him to full attention.

Pulling the vehicle to a halt by the gate, he turned in his seat and looked at her. She was staring into space.

“Will?”

She didn’t seem to hear.

He waved a hand in front of her face. “Honey, how do you know?”

Blinking, she looked at him. “Know what?”

“That dogs make sad people happy?”

“Oh, that.” She swallowed. “No reason. I just—”

Mark wrenched open the Range Rover’s back door and clambered in. With a cheery greeting— “Hi, Will, hi, Mr. Ryland, thanks for picking me up”—he set his lunch bucket at his feet and fastened his seat belt.

Gabe put the vehicle in motion. “Hi, kid.”

Mark immediately launched into a tale about one of his father’s cows that had calved the previous evening, and Gabe knew his opportunity to question his daughter was lost.

But he couldn’t dismiss the feeling that something was going on, something he knew nothing about…and she obviously meant to keep it that way.

And Mrs. Kincaid’s sadness—which he himself had noticed—was what had brought it to the surface.

Well, neither he nor his daughter would be seeing the woman again, so they could both forget about her.

He dropped the kids off at school and drove home. Once there, he fetched Fang from the kitchen and took him out for a run. The day was polished to a bright sheen, the sky as blue as sapphire, with not one cloud to mar it.

He strolled down the grassy slope in front of the lodge, over the crest and down the hill. Fang romped ahead, making for the barbed wire fence that formed the boundary between Ryland property and Lockhart land. Gabe shook his head irritably as, just like every other morning, the dog made to wriggle under the lowest wire of the fence.

“Fang!” he yelled. “No!”

The dog paused halfway through. Then, just as he did every morning on their walk, he wriggled back and took off along the perimeter.

Damn dog! Gabe mused. You’d think he’d know by now that he wasn’t supposed to go in there.

His lips compressed to a thin line as he gazed over the forest, the only evidence of Holly Cottage being the three chimney tops—

But no. Not this morning.

This morning, marring the clear blue of the sky, a wisp of smoke rose from one of the chimneys; rose, and swayed in a gust of wind off the river, and rose again.

Gabe rammed his hands into his pockets and glowered at the smoke. As a child, he’d been ordered never to trespass on Lockhart land, but once, when he was seven, he’d dared to sneak down there, and he’d peeked in the kitchen window. He’d seen an old wood stove in the shadowy room, and he’d always remembered it because it had been so old-fashioned compared to the modern appliances they had at the lodge.