Pauline had told her at breakfast. Mr. Haskell, it seemed, was “holding his own”—whatever that meant. At least he wasn’t worse.
On such a fine morning, brisk, but with the promise of later warmth, it was difficult to feel anything but upbeat. Or was it actually because she was going riding with Russ? A bit of both, Mari told herself. It had been silly not to tell him where she was staying. Maybe he didn’t even know Mr. Haskell. Still, after Mr. Haskell’s dramatic appearance on TV, probably everyone did. Would Russ connect her with the missing Haskell daughter if she told him she was at the cottage?
Mari grimaced, disliking having to be secretive with a man she felt was a friend. Maybe she shouldn’t worry about Russ knowing where she was staying. Besides, the island was so small he’d find out sooner or later, anyway. She might as well tell him herself if the chance came to bring it up casually.
Russ was waiting at the stables with two handsome chestnuts that looked like a matched pair. She tried to tell herself her heart wasn’t racing at the sight of him, and gave him an offhand greeting. “Good-looking pair,” she said, forcing her attention to the horses rather than on him.
“Same sire and dam,” he told her. “My friend Nellis told me they were slated for one of the fancier two-horse surreys, but then Jill balked at having anything with wheels behind her, and Jack refused to be hitched unless Jill was beside him. Since they come from a long line of buggy horses, Nellis was surprised but happy when they turned out to be good riding horses. Genes don’t always run true.”
Mari blinked, unsure if the last few words might not somehow be directed at her. Almost immediately she decided she was way off the mark. He couldn’t possibly know who she was or who she might be. He’s talking about horses and nothing else, you worrier, you, she told herself.
To calm herself, she rubbed Jill’s nose. “You’re a smart mare,” she said. “I wouldn’t like one of those wheeled things rumbling at my heels, either.”
“Just like women to stick together,” Russ observed as he gave her a hand up onto Jill’s back.
“I suppose men don’t?” she countered.
“Independent to the core, all of us.”
She rolled her eyes.
He mounted Jack, saying, “We’ll ride around the island’s perimeter this morning to give you an idea of its size. I’ll save the historical spots and unusual rock formations for later trips. That is, if you’ll be staying around for a few weeks.”
“Uh, maybe.” She hadn’t a clue how long she’d be here. It depended on Mr. Haskell’s health and how soon he might be able to return to the island. After that, who knew?
“Maybe you’ll be here for a couple weeks, or maybe you’ll put up with my company after today?” he asked.
Though very aware of how much she enjoyed being with him, she wasn’t about to tell him that. Slanting him a look, she said, “Both. How far is it around the island?”
“Eight and a half miles.” Letting Jack set an easy pace, Russ led the way from the stables to the lake road that followed the island’s perimeter.
Mari was charmed anew by the lack of motorized vehicles. “It’s like living before they invented the automobile,” she said as she pulled up even with him. “I can’t get over how different it is here.”
He gestured to the left, toward the arched span of the Mackinac Bridge, visible in the distance, connecting Michigan’s Lower and Upper Peninsulas. “That’s as close as cars get to the island. Except for a couple of emergency vehicles, there are none here.”
Mari, watching a sailboat scud along Lake Huron and wishing again she was just a tourist, sighed.
Russ glanced at her. “Something wrong?”
She shook her head, not daring to dare tell him how troubled she felt over why she’d come here. Her birth mother had listed her name as Ida Grant on Mari’s birth certificate. On TV, Mr. Haskell had given his daughter’s name as Isabel and said she might be using Morrison as her last name. Why had Uncle Stan been so sure Ida Grant was Isabel Haskell Morrison? As far as Mari knew, he had no real proof.
As the horses clopped along, Russ pointed out a limestone formation called Devil’s Kitchen. “Not one of the more spectacular. We’ll give it a miss.” Farther on he gestured to a bluff on the right. “Lover’s Leap.”
“We have a few of those in the Sierras,” she said. “I’ve always thought it strange anyone would want to die for love.”
“You ever been in love?”
Had she? With Danny Boy? She’d been infatuated enough at the time, but after the breakup she’d certainly never considered leaping off a cliff because he was gone. Willa insisted her pride had suffered more than her heart. Whatever it was, Mari wouldn’t make the same mistake again. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “How about you?”
He shrugged.
“So you don’t know, either,” she said. “I wonder how anyone can ever be sure about being in love?”
“Could be there’s no such thing.” Pointing again to the right, he said, “There’s where the ill-fated Stonecliff ski hill fiasco was. Lost their shirts. The Island’s not a popular winter resort.”
In other words, enough talk about love. Which was fine with her. Chemistry, now, that was different. How could she not believe in chemistry when just being with Russ gave her a high? But chemistry was definitely not love.
“Up a ways is where the British landed in the War of 1812 and took the island from the U.S. We’ll stop for coffee at the snack shop there.”
“You mean they captured that big fort on the hill overlooking the town?”
He glanced at her. “No matter how well fortified you think you are, remember there’s always the sneak attack that comes from the direction you least expect.”
Remember? Was he simply talking about the British landing or something else? His half smile made her think he might be warning her.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she told him.
At the coffee shop, Russ studied her when she wasn’t watching, acutely aware of her next to him sipping her latte. Sooner or later he was going to have to come to terms with his attraction to her.
“So in 1812 the British flag flew over the island,” she said.
“Actually, the battle was in 1814, near the end of the war. After the peace treaty was signed they had to give the fort back to the U.S.”
She stirred her latte. Without looking at him, she said, “In other words, even a sneak attack may be only temporarily successful.”
“Sometimes temporary is enough.” She shot him a quick glance and he grinned at her. “All’s fair, you know.”
In love and war. The words he didn’t say echoed in his mind. This sure wasn’t love. Since spying was a part of war, you might call it that, though. Why not make a play for her instead of trying to deny what he wanted?
What
