turned on…if there even was power. What if Greg’s grandmother had lived by candlelight?
She shuddered, then gave herself a mental shake. The darkness was her own fault, and she could remedy it first thing in the morning.
With a glance back at the truck, she eased into the house. The lumpy shadows were furniture, draped in heavy dust cloths. There was one sofa-size, two chair-size. A fireplace of native stone filled most of one wall, so heat was a possibility—if there happened to be some firewood lying around somewhere—and the oil lamp on the mantel sloshed when she picked it up. Let there be light, she thought gratefully.
She did a quick tour of the house: a kitchen with a tiny corner set aside for the dining room, a decent-size bedroom, a bathroom—thank you, God—and a second bedroom about the size of a closet. There were beds in the bedrooms and mattresses on the beds. She had plenty of linens in the truck, along with enough blankets to warm an igloo for a night or two. Now if she could just find some dry wood, they would be in business.
She was returning to the living room when a shadow appeared in the open doorway. It stretched from the floor all the way to the top of the door frame and pretty much filled it side to side, as well. A startled cry escaped before she could stop it, and her heart leaped into her throat.
The shadow was a snow-dusted man. He wore jeans, a heavy coat and thick-soled boots, and a knitted cap covered his head and much of his face. Likely he lived in the house where the road ended its meandering journey. That didn’t make her feel any safer or any less worried about her daughter.
Before she could find her voice to speak, he did. “What are you doing here?”
He was a neighbor, she counseled herself, and out here a neighbor was A Good Thing. Taking a deep breath, she started across the room toward him. “I’m moving in. I’m Jayne Miller. Edna Miller was my grandmother-in-law. My husband’s grandmother. Actually, my ex-husband now. We’re divorced, but he gave me the house. Well, he didn’t exactly give it to me. He took everything we owned of any value and left me the deed to this place in exchange.” Abruptly she caught her breath. “That’s too much information, isn’t it?” She offered her hand, remembered she still wore her gloves, stripped the right one off, then stuck out her hand again. “I’m Jayne Miller. Your new neighbor. And you are?”
His gaze dropped to her hand—she felt it as much as saw it—but he made no effort to shake it. Instead he looked at her again. “You’re not planning to live here, are you?”
She felt foolish standing there with her hand out. She tugged the glove on again, slid her hands into her coat pockets, then pulled them out and folded her arms across her chest. “Yes. Probably. That was the plan, at least.” And still was, she told herself. She needed a change of scene. Lucy would be better off growing up in Smalltown, Tennessee, than in Chicago. And Jayne’s writing career, barely alive the past few years, desperately needed the boost that time, inspiration and isolation could give it.
“Yes. We’re going to live here.”
“We?”
“My daughter and me—I—we. Lucy and me.” She dragged in a cold, musty breath. “I didn’t get your name.”
He scowled harder and said, “Lewis.”
“Lewis,” she repeated. He didn’t look like a Lewis. Naming characters was important in her work; sometimes it took longer to find just the right name for a character than it had to name Lucy. A Lewis should be older, heavier, less brooding. This Lewis was tall, lean though broad-shouldered, scowling and somewhat handsome. Not knock-your-socks-off gorgeous but attractive in a dark, brooding sort of way.
Dark and brooding always appealed to a romance author.
But at the moment she was in mother/woman mode, not romance author. “Well, Lewis, it’s nice meeting you, but I’ve got to see if Gran left any firewood around here or head back into town and get a motel room for the night. I, uh, forgot to make arrangements to have the power turned on.”
Though she took a step forward, he didn’t move. “The nearest motel is thirty miles back north, not that it matters. You’re not getting off the mountain today. The road’s impassable. My truck’s stuck at the bottom of the last hill.”
That explained the snow that coated his shoulders. She glanced past him and saw that her SUV was shrouded in the stuff. “Well, then, that makes the firewood more important. If you’ll excuse me…”
Still he didn’t move. “Wouldn’t matter if you had called ahead. The power’s off. And there’s not any firewood here. I’ll bring some over.”
Jayne swallowed hard. “You don’t have to do that. I mean, I appreciate the offer, but if you’ll just tell me where it is, I can bring it over myself. You probably want to get out of the cold.” Probably almost as much as she wanted out of it. Lord, this had been a stupid move on her part—Greg-stupid, which was about as irresponsible as it got. But it had been seventy degrees that morning. How could she possibly have known they’d be in a snowstorm by midafternoon?
Lewis looked as if he wanted to take her up on her offer, but his mouth tightened and instead he said, “Go ahead and get what you need out of the truck. You did bring food and blankets, didn’t you?”
I’m not stupid, she wanted to say, but hadn’t she just admitted that sometimes she was? “Yes.” She’d stocked up when they’d stopped for lunch—chips, peanut butter and crackers, cookies, canned soup, bottled water and chocolate. She and Lucy could live for days on that.
Finally he moved out of the doorway, but instead of leaving, he came inside. He took something from the table pushed against one wall, then went to the fireplace and removed the globe from the lamp there. There was a strike, a flare of sulfur, then the odor of burning oil as the flame caught the lamp wick. A moment later the second lamp was also burning. “You might clean those globes before you put them back on,” he said shortly, then left before he could hear her faint “I will.”
Jayne went to the door to watch him. He moved with long strides, paying no attention to the snow that crept halfway up his calves. She hadn’t really given any thought to neighbors when she’d decided to move here; she’d just assumed there would be more than enough. After all, in Chicago, neighbors were in plentiful supply. Lewis had the potential to be a good one—not too friendly, so he wouldn’t interrupt her work the way Greg had, but willing to help when needed. She and Lucy wouldn’t be alone up here on the mountain, but they could feel as if they were. That was a big plus.
Then she turned back and looked at the drab, dusty room that was even more depressing with the lamplight shining on its shortcomings and sighed. She really needed a big plus right about now.
The last thing Tyler Lewis wanted in his life was a neighbor—no, make that a neighbor with a kid, he grumbled as he stacked a load of logs into a canvas carrier. When he’d built his house, he’d bought the most remote piece of land he could find around Sweetwater. Granted, he’d had old Edna just down the road for three years, but she’d pretty much kept to herself, and he’d done the same. He’d chopped wood for her, picked up her stuff at the grocery store when he did his own shopping and made a few repairs around her place when she needed them, but that hadn’t made them friends. He hadn’t been looking for any intrusions into his life, and neither had she.
Maybe her ex-granddaughter-in-law had that in common with her. A man could hope.
Jayne Miller. A plain name for a far-from-plain woman. Tall, with long legs,
