a lot, but at least having a plan, setting a course of any kind, helped a little.
And in the meantime he had to deal with the situation he was currently in.
Which was also one hell of a situation.
The cabin was stocked for the winter with plenty of already-cut wood, bottled water and nonperishable food. Nothing luxurious, but enough to keep them safe.
Maicy was more of a problem.
So far it appeared that she didn’t have a serious brain injury, that she had a minor concussion that a little rest would cure. But if she took a turn for the worse like Declan and the storm, they were going to have bigger problems.
Bigger even than the fact that it was Maicy Clark he was stranded with—the one person in the world who had every reason to hate his guts. And apparently did.
Sometimes it just sucked to do what he thought was right, what he thought was best for everyone involved.
And when it came to Maicy it had left him with guilt he could never dislodge.
Not even now, when it didn’t seem as if she had done too badly for herself.
After all, the car she’d crashed into the ditch had been a high-end sedan, and looking at her...
Despite her injury, she looked great—certainly not world-weary or worn or as if life had gotten the better of her.
She’d always had that amazing head of hair—thick and wavy and shiny. It used to feel like heavy silk whenever he’d gotten his hands into it, and it was no less lush now.
And that face? Time had not taken a toll on that, either. Instead it had only improved on perfection, removing the girlish immaturity and leaving her an incredibly beautiful woman.
Her skin was like porcelain and her features were delicate and refined, with elegant, high cheekbones, a thin, graceful nose, and soft ruby lips that he’d never been able to get his fill of.
And if that wasn’t enough—along with the lush way her compact little body had blossomed—there were those eyes.
Sparkling, vibrant, emerald green.
One look from those eyes in days gone by and he would have moved mountains for her...
Though he had managed to stand his ground that one time. And from what she said, it was clear she had not forgiven or forgotten. Never mind that the choice he’d made all those years ago had been every bit as much about what he’d thought was best for her as what he’d known he had to do himself. He’d still hurt her.
And now he had to contend with the fallout.
All these years later.
Alone in a small space with her and all of her anger.
The young Maicy had been a sweetheart. Uncomplicated and good-natured, agreeable and soft-hearted. But now? Somewhere along the way some spunk and feistiness had been added. And a touch of temper to go with that red hair. Cut and bloodied and reeling and barely conscious again, she’d still shot barbs at him and had seemed very prepared to make his life miserable until they could get out of here.
But like having unreliable cell phone service, when it came to Maicy he was just going to have to do what he could and cope, he told himself as he picked up the canvas sling that he’d filled with as much wood as it would hold.
And maybe he needed to use this strange opportunity to see if he could finally explain why he had denied her request—an explanation she hadn’t listened to eighteen years ago.
It might not make any difference, he thought as he inched along the rear of the cabin to get to the back door again, but he’d like to try.
Because along with the other things that were eating at him lately there had also come some wondering, some questioning, about his own course, his own choices. And if he’d made the right ones.
First and foremost, about Maicy.
* * *
Maicy had dozed off, and when she woke up daylight was gone, darkness had fallen, and the only sounds were of the raging storm outside and the fire crackling inside.
“Conor?” she called out. There was no answer.
She sat up on the worn plaid sofa where she’d fallen asleep, keeping the blanket around her and wondering if Conor had deserted her. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time.
The couch was under the cabin’s front window. Peering through it, beyond the snow blowing like a white sheet in the wind, she thought she could see flashes of his silver SUV. So he had to be around somewhere.
Her head hurt and she reached up to feel the bandaging. The blood had begun to dry. She assumed that meant the gash must have stopped bleeding. But her whole body was more stiff and sore than it had been before. And she felt weak. Drained.
Hard to tell whether that was from her physical condition or her mental state, she thought.
She slumped back against the soft cushions, studying her surroundings in the dim firelight.
She’d never been to this cabin before. Rickie had brought friends out for camping or hunting, but never for parties—and now she could see why. Built by Rickie’s great-great-grandfather, the place provided shelter but it was hardly a showpiece.
The living room she was in featured rough-hewn log walls and a wood-planked floor, the old couch she was on and a scarred coffee table. Off to one side, the kitchen section was made up of a small utility table acting as an island counter and a few cupboards. There was also an old black-and-silver wood-burning stove in the corner, but that was it—no refrigerator, no other appliances at all.
A doorway off the kitchen led somewhere she couldn’t see into, and another to Maicy’s left appeared to be a bedroom with a four-poster bed that looked old enough to have arrived by covered wagon.
If there was a bathroom, she couldn’t see it from the sofa and she worried that the only facilities might be an outhouse.
All in all, it was nothing like the cozy, quaint bridal suite at the Northbridge Bed-and-Breakfast, where she’d planned to spend tonight.
Instead she was here. A runaway bride.
What a mess this had all become...
Rather than being at her wedding reception tonight, dancing and celebrating as Mrs. Gary Stern, she and Gary were over. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, she was stranded in a log cabin with yet another, earlier example of her lousy taste in men.
“I keep thinking I’m making better choices than you did, Mom, but maybe I inherited some kind of faulty man-reader from you,” she muttered.
There was no question that her mother had chosen poorly in Maicy’s father. At the first sign of any problem—big or small—John Clark had taken off. Disappeared, sometimes for a year or two at a time.
Her mother had excused him, saying their shotgun marriage after her mother had discovered she was pregnant with Maicy had not been easy for him. Maicy hadn’t
