Mending Places (3 page)

He entered his one-room cabin, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. Silence hung in the stale air, and he remembered his roommate was gone on his own climb for a couple of days.

He slid out of his dusty jeans and turned on the shower full blast. Stepping under the spray, he let four days of grit swirl down the drain.

When his boss had asked him to lead the Majestic’s owner and his son on an expedition up Grand Teton, he’d had no idea what he was in for. The men had expected him to cater to them like a nanny, but serving with a smile had worn a hole in his dignity.

He’d been handpicked for the excursion, though, so he couldn’t afford to disappoint his boss. Mr. Woodrow was set on impressing the owner with every facet of the well-oiled Majestic. Micah had done his job well, and Mr. Woodrow would be pleased. The owner and his son had sung his praises all the way back to the hotel and were no doubt soaking in the hot tub of their owner’s suite at this very moment.

He stood under the warm spray, reveling in the hot prickles that massaged his skin. The temperature was just the way he liked it—hot
enough to soften tar. Feeling clean was a luxury he missed on overnight trips. After a quick shave, he’d be a new man. A flick of the knob stopped the flow of water, and he stepped through the billowing steam, securing a big Majestic towel around his waist. Shoving aside Gregg’s toiletries, he swiped at the foggy mirror and towel-dried his black hair. Soon the electric razor’s buzzing filled the tiny bathroom, and four days’ worth of stubble were whisked off his jaw. He finger-combed his hair as he stepped across the threshold into the main room, his mind already fixed on lunch.

A woman posed on the sofa. He stopped cold. Fran’s red hair caught the lamplight, sending copper highlights dancing with each slight movement. Her silky blouse dipped low on her bosom, showing more than he had a right to see.

He clutched his towel, suddenly afraid it would slip off and leave him exposed.

“Hope you don’t mind me letting myself in,” she said.

“What are you doing here?” He tucked the towel firmly at his waist.

Mrs. Woodrow stood and pressed imaginary wrinkles from her slacks. Her earrings glittered in the light. “Did you miss me?”

“Nothing’s changed, Fran. I want you to leave.” He walked to the door and opened it.

She approached, but stopped directly in front of him. “No, you don’t.” The cloying scent of her perfume brushed his nostrils.

“You’re a married woman.” He skirted her and walked to the closet, trying to put space between them. Once there, he ripped a T-shirt from a wire hanger.

She followed. “Why don’t you forget all that religious stuff for once, hmm, Micah? You won’t regret it.”

He felt the heat of her body on his bare back. His mouth tasted of sand, gritty and dry. There was a time he’d have bedded her before she’d issued a vocal invitation. The look she’d given him would’ve been enough, married or not. But that was before. He turned and addressed her firmly. “Go home, Fran.”

Desperation glimmered in her emerald eyes, and her full lips puckered in a red, sensuous pout. “Go home to what? Ben doesn’t care about me. All he cares about is that boring hotel. I’m just shriveling there, with nothing to do all day. I want some intelligent company—someone who appreciates me, someone to hold me.”

He may as well have been holding her, as close as she was standing. He draped the shirt over his shoulder and grasped her arms firmly, hoping to get through to her. “You’ve got to stop this.”

Instead, her fingers slithered from his abdomen to his chest in a quick, suggestive move.

“Micah?” A deep voice boomed through the open doorway.

He abruptly released Fran’s arms. Judging by her sudden gasp, she’d recognized the squat silhouette of her husband filling the doorway.

Micah’s feet seemed to be cemented to the floor even as Fran stepped away.

The manager’s body stiffened, though Micah couldn’t read his expression, silhouetted in the door as he was.

“How ironic,” Mr. Woodrow’s voice was disturbingly calm. “I’d come to tell you what a good job you did, Micah. It seems you’ve been doing a good job on my wife as well.”

“Really, Benjamin—”

“Save your breath, Fran,” his manager said. He nailed Micah with a look. “Pack your bags. I want you out of here tonight.”

Hanna picked up the receiver and greeted the caller, who turned out to be a woman wanting to reserve two rooms the following week. Over the past several weeks, her national advertising had been placed and calls were trickling in steadily.

Hanna answered the woman’s questions, and when Gram entered the office, setting a mug of coffee at her fingertips, she smiled her thanks. She marked the reservations calendar with the woman’s name and returned the phone to its cradle.

“Another reservation? Wonderful!” Gram said.

“Umm.”

“What’s the matter?”

She’d thought their problems were over now that the bank had extended a loan. Instead, she felt the pressure of the higher payment like a vise around her throat.

“Mrs. Leavenworth, the lady on the phone, was interested in a guided mountain trip. She saw our ad in the
Travel America
magazine, the one that promoted our trekking guide. Her husband and three teenage boys want to do an overnighter up Grand Teton next week.”

“Still haven’t found anyone?”

She tucked in the corner of her mouth. “You saw them, Gram. One of them was barely out of adolescence, with no experience, and that Hank guy gave me the creeps. I haven’t found someone to oversee the watercraft either.”

“We still have another week before the season starts. Are the help-wanted ads still running?”

“Yes.” Hanna took a sip of coffee. “We might be able to make do without the watercraft person for a while, but we need the trekker right away.”

Gram patted her arm. “God will provide the right man, child.”

“Well, he’s not going to blow in on the wind, so I guess I’d better figure out something quick.”

“Hello?” The deep voice rumbled into the office from the lobby.

She rounded the corner and stopped short. The man was as masculine as his voice. A strong jaw line rescued his face from mediocrity, and his body looked as if it had been chiseled from Petzoldt Ridge. She squelched the automatic rush of anxiety. “May I help you?”

“Hope so. I’d like to talk to the manager.”

She smiled. “That would be me.” She extended a hand over the counter. “I’m Hanna Landin.”

He set down his bags and enveloped her hand. “Micah Gallagher.”

“What can I do for you?”

His eyes left hers to roam the lodge. She saw it as it would appear to him, the wooden cedar planks weathered to a gray patina, the scarred wooden floor she’d been wanting to refmish. His gaze returned to absorb her in a sea of gray. “I’m looking for work. I’m a mountain guide. I know you don’t have a trekker on staff, but I wondered if you’d ever considered it.”

Hanna sucked in a breath. She stood for moments in shock while he continued.

“The rates customers pay practically pay a trekker’s wages, and it’s a big draw for tourists.” He seemed to notice her astonishment. “Sorry if I sound pushy—”

“No, not at all.” She heard Gram stifling a laugh behind her and introduced her. “Why don’t we go into the office?”

Gram caught her eye as she passed. “I think I’ll go shut the door.” She winked at Hanna. “Seems it’s getting mighty windy out there.”

Hanna led him into the office. There was strength and control in his movements, a certain masculine grace that showed body awareness. Bulk was one thing, grace another, and he had both in abundance.

She seated herself behind the desk. “It just so happens I’ve been looking for a climbing guide. Do you have a rÉsumÉ?”

“No, sorry, I don’t. I just stopped here on a whim, but I can tell you I have five years’ experience at the Majestic, and I’ve been lead climber the last three. I can give you references.”

She handed him a pad of paper and ink pen. “Please do.” She studied him as he wrote awkwardly with a left-handed grip. He had the dark coloring of someone who worked outdoors, and his black lashes swept the top of his cheekbone giving him a boyish appearance.

A WWJD bracelet dangled from his wrist. A Christian. This seemed too good to be true, his stopping by just when she was in desperate need of a mountain guide.
Thank You, God.

“May I ask why you left your job at the Majestic?”

His pen stopped midword, and his countenance fell as his eyes flickered with something akin to anxiety. He rubbed his jaw. She didn’t need
to be an expert in body language to see that the question had caught him off guard.

“I have a good track record at the Majestic and never had a customer complaint, but….” He looked at the pen he rolled between his fingers. “Although my reviews were excellent, the manager and I had some … personal differences.”

Personal differences? What did that mean? Her mind spun with suspicion.

“I’d prefer you not call him for a reference.”

She weighed the suspicious information against the bracelet, evidence of his Christianity. For all she knew, he could be a thief or worse. She couldn’t hire him to work with her guests when he was so evasive. She needed someone she could trust implicitly; after all, he would be taking her guests on overnight trips. A wave of disappointment swept over her.

“Look, I can see you’re uncomfortable about this, so I’ll just tell you straight out.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a puff “The manager’s wife had a … a thing for me.”

She quirked a brow and watched a flush climb from the crew neck of his black T-shirt to his cheekbones.

He held his hands palm out. “I never touched the woman, at least, not in that way, but she showed up in my room, and Mr. Woodrow caught her there and just assumed … well, you can imagine.”

He ducked his head, avoiding her gaze, but instead of evasiveness, she sensed embarrassment. The man could probably have his pick of women. She wondered if he had considered his boss’s wife off-limits or if he had merely found her unattractive. If he was even telling the truth. She watched him rub his jaw again. Sympathy tugged at her heart. A man who blushed so easily couldn’t be that bad. Still, she only had his word.

He finished writing on the pad and handed it to her. “Here’s my references. I included two of the climbers at the Majestic so you can get a feel for my abilities. I’ve climbed many times with both of them. I also
included my pastor’s number and the man who used to be my foster father.”

She took the pad, feeling a smidge better about him.

“Either way, I still need a room for tonight. If you’d like, you can make those calls and let me know later.”

“That sounds fine.” She led him back to the front desk, signed him in, and gave him a room key. When he left, she went back to her office and looked at the paper again. Even his writing slanted darkly with strength. Her eyes skimmed across the last name on the list. His foster father. She wondered what had become of his real parents.

CHAPTER THREE
 

Natalie Coombs flipped the dishwasher lever, sealing the door, and pushed the metal button. As the appliance whirred into action, she lifted Taylor from his high chair and set him down on the other side of the safety gate. “Here you go, baby.” She handed him his sipper cup and peeked around the corner to make sure Alex was not into any mischief before heading upstairs to straighten the rooms.

She stooped to retrieve Cheerios along the way, smiling at the way they led to Alex’s room like a treasure-hunt trail. A few of them had already been reduced to Cheerio dust by small, bare feet, and she made a mental note to vacuum later in the day. She threw the handful of cereal away in Alex’s trash pail, then frowned at the mini Lego blocks scattered across the carpet. For a moment she considered calling him to clean up the mess, then just as quickly dismissed the idea. By the time she convinced him to do it, she could have done it herself and moved on to other things.

After gathering the blocks, she closed the gaping drawers and picked up the pajamas that had Bob the Builder splashed across the fabric. Resisting the urge to remake the lumpy bed, she went to the nursery and changed the crib bedding. That done, she moved on to her bedroom, deposited the dirty laundry into the hamper, and made her own bed. As usual, Keith’s side was in chaos, the flat sheet pulled up from the bottom, and the fitted sheet pulled loose from the corner.
Her own side of the king-sized bed hardly looked like anyone had slept in it.