Tempt Me If You Can Read online

“I—I wish I wasn’t glad.”

  “Emma, will you be okay while I go find our pack?”

  “It’s probably all the way to Medicine Lake by now. Climb down and get me.”

  She still refused to open her eyes, so she couldn’t see that it was a ten-foot drop to the shelf she was on. It was probably just as well. She also couldn’t see it was another thirty feet to the bottom.

  Two quick gunshots cracked just below them, and Ben saw Atwood, Skyler, and Mike making their way to the foot of the pool where Poulin was floating.

  “What was that?” Emma called up to him.

  “Mike’s here with reinforcements. I bet the boy’s got some rope.”

  He heard her sigh.

  “Nem!” Mike called from below. “Are you okay?”

  “Get me down, Mikey!” she hollered, her eyes still closed and her head still leaning against the cliff.

  Mike looked up at his father and waved. Ben gave a sigh of relief, sat down on the bridge above Emma, and put his arm around the softly whining Beaker. The dog didn’t like seeing her distress any more than Ben did.

  “Just a few more minutes,” he assured the dog. “We’ll get her up here safe and sound.” He petted him. “You did good, fella. I think there are a lot of cookies in your future.”

  Still shaken from her ascent from the granite shelf, Emma found herself arguing with four determined males. The fifth, four-legged male hadn’t stopped licking her since she’d made it to the top.

  “I am not flying out of here in a helicopter,” she told the men again.

  “It’s already on its way,” Atwood said with a frustrated sigh.

  Mikey should have been on her side, but the boy just kept shaking his head as he looked at her, the worry evident in his expression. “It’s the quickest way out, Nem. You can’t walk, and there’s no place for a plane to land.”

  Emma grabbed Beaker’s nose in an attempt to get him to stop licking her. “I’m not getting in a helicopter, and that’s that.”

  “Why the hell not?” Ben asked.

  “Because helicopters are unnatural machines.”

  Skyler snorted. “They’re remarkably nimble,” he said, apparently taking offense. “And perfect for situations like this one.”

  “How are they unnatural?” Ben asked, looking genuinely interested.

  “They don’t have wings. And all their spinning parts are trying to get away from each other. Do you see anything in nature that flies without wings?”

  Her answer seemed to shock them. Except Mikey. He was well aware of her feelings toward helicopters. And although he might agree with her in theory, he obviously wanted her out of these woods badly enough to put her in a helicopter.

  She wanted out, too. But in one piece.

  She looked at Mikey. “I can make it to where the white water flattens out. There’s enough room there for a floatplane to land.”

  “But there’s not a pilot in Greenville who’d be willing to try it,” he answered, shaking his head. “You’re the only one who would dare.”

  Emma looked toward the sound of a helicopter approaching from the south. “That thing is older than I am,” she said as the aging Huey beat the air in heavy, pulsating thumps.

  Ben got within an inch of her nose. “You’re getting in that helicopter and going to the hospital,” he said with the determination of a man who had been pushed past his limit.

  “Someone’s got to lead Pitiful home,” she said. “He’s panicked from the earthquakes.”

  “I will, Nem,” Mikey offered.

  “That chopper can’t hover forever, Emma,” Ben interjected. “So what’ll it be? Trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey or sitting in the basket like a dignified woodswoman?”

  “You’re riding with me,” she countered, glaring right back at him.

  The smile he gave her was purely male. “Oh, you can bet on it. I’m going to see that you’re examined from head to toe.”

  Emma closed her eyes. And she didn’t open them for the hair-raising ride up the grappling winch, or the treetop ride over the countryside, or even for the gentle ride in the elevator of the hospital.

  Because she fell sound asleep in the warm, safe, capable arms of the man she loved.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  It took the authorities nearly a week to find, identify, and finally release Kelly’s remains to Emma and Mikey. Her nephew had come to her two nights ago and asked if he could bring his mother home to Medicine Creek Camps for the wake, to let the townspeople pay their respects.

  Emma had thought to have a quiet affair with only Ben and Greta present. But she soon realized how badly Mikey needed to perform this act for the woman for whom he’d had so many conflicting feelings for most of his life. So she had agreed, and they’d made a place for Kelly’s closed coffin in the living room.

  And the townspeople, themselves likely sorry for having judged her, had come.

  On the day of the funeral, the procession to the graveyard where Charles and Miriam Sands were buried was a long one. Cars and pickups and even logging trucks lined the road beside the small cemetery. The ceremony was brief, the faces of Medicine Gore contrite. They were all guilty of condemning a woman who had tried her best to keep her son safe from the evil that had been living with them for sixteen years.

  Flowers overflowed the gravesite, spilling onto Emma’s mother and father’s graves. The weather was glorious, warm and embracing.

  Emma didn’t cry. She had purged herself that afternoon on the mountain, high up in the land her family had called home. She had made her peace with her sister, silently thanking Kelly for Mikey, and laid her quietly to rest, knowing the boy was finally safe.

  As for Mikey, it was as if he’d suddenly had a weight lifted off his shoulders. The burden of being abandoned by someone who was supposed to love him was gone. Though sad and remorseful, he walked taller and seemed more peaceful.

  So Emma didn’t cry for her sister as the minister finished his eulogy and the townspeople gave her their sympathy on their way out of the cemetery. Nor did she cry when Ben led her away.

  She didn’t shed a tear until she turned back looking for Mikey, and saw him all alone, his jacket on the ground and his sleeves rolled up, slowly shoveling the earth over his mother.

  Then she doubled over in pain.

  Ben turned her into him, burying her face in his chest. “Sshhh, Emma. It’s okay.”

  “I can’t stand for him to do that, Ben. He shouldn’t be alone. He shouldn’t be doing that!”

  “He has to, Em,” he told her, hugging her close. “It’s the last act a son can do for a mother he loves.”

  “Help him.”

  “No, honey. He doesn’t need me. He needs to be alone with Kelly. Come on,” he said, turning them toward his truck. “Everyone is waiting at Greta’s house.”

  The entire town was gathered on the lawn, the porch, and inside the huge kitchen and parlor, as they had been when Sable died.

  Emma had her emotions under control by the time they arrived, and felt she held up well, even when the condolences turned to questions. She actually smiled when the questions turned to apologies to Ben.

  John LeBlanc led the crusade. “Well, Sinclair. We’re sorry for thinking you had anything to do with the dam being blown up sixteen years ago. It came as quite a shock to learn that it was Poulin.”

  “It was Poulin who first cried that Sinclair was responsible,” Durham added, coming up and handing Emma a glass of punch. He looked at Ben. “I’m, ah, sorry for the little misunderstanding that day, Sinclair. No hard feelings?”

  Ben didn’t answer immediately. “I’ll get back to you on that,” he said, his arm around Emma’s waist.

  “Rumor has it you’re planning on marrying our Emma Jean.” John looked at Ben with assessing eyes. “That right?”

  “Next week,” Ben confirmed. “The day after Thanksgiving.”

  Durham looked at Emma. “You’re staying here, aren’t you? You aren’t selling Medic
ine Creek Camps?”

  Ben answered for her. “No, she’s not. I’m going to move my office to Medicine Gore.”

  Both men widened their eyes and Durham choked on his punch. “But I thought you owned some huge shipping company. How you gonna run something like that from way out here?”

  “With satellites, modems, faxes, and computers.” He gave Emma’s waist a gentle squeeze. “And if I can find myself a good pilot, I can commute to New York when I need to.”

  Durham and John looked floored. “What about all the people who work for you?” John asked.

  Emma looked at Ben. This was the first she’d heard of his plan.

  “Nothing in New York will change. But there’s a fine workforce here, also.”

  “We’re loggers,” Durham said. “We don’t know nothing about computers.”

  “It will be steady, year-round work,” Ben said.

  Durham and John both frowned, their bushy eyebrows drawing together. Emma laughed out loud. “Your wife might become a career woman, John. And during your off season, you’ll be doing the cooking.”

  Both men turned and beat a hasty retreat, mumbling that they needed something stronger than punch.

  “Do you have a place in your company for a spry old woman, Mr. Sinclair?” Greta asked as she took the men’s place.

  “I’m sure I can find something.”

  “Well, Emma Jean. I must say, when I sent Ben that letter, I certainly wasn’t expecting the results I got,” Greta said.

  “You sent the letter!” Ben said.

  Greta nodded, smiling like a well-fed cat. “Damn right I did. I figured it was time you came back and righted a few wrongs.” She looked at him, her eyes narrowing. “I didn’t realize that the greatest wrong was living under my own roof. Thank you for fixing things, young man.”

  Ben smiled, took the old woman’s hand, and kissed it. “I’m glad to have been of service. And thank you for giving me my son and Emma.”

  Greta blushed to the roots of her gray hair as she turned to Emma and winked. “Your mother’s wedding dress is in my attic. Charlie asked me to save it for you girls.”

  All three of them turned when the kitchen door opened and Mikey finally walked in. Emma started toward him but stopped when he smiled at her.

  He looked surprisingly … peaceful. His jacket was thrown over his shoulder, his tie was pulled free and hanging down his front, and there were streaks of dirt on his cheeks. But he looked serene.

  “I’m starved, Aunt Greta,” he said as he walked over to the punch bowl and downed two cups without stopping. “What’s to eat?”

  Greta hauled him over to the counter and began filling him a plateful that would choke a horse.

  “He’s going to be okay, isn’t he?” Emma asked Ben.

  “He’s okay right now, Em. He’s found himself.” He smiled at her. “And thanks to your meddling friend, we all found each other.”

  “I’m so glad,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around him and hugging the man of her dreams to her heart.

  Epilogue

  As weddings went, this had to be the nicest one Emma would ever see.

  It didn’t matter that she was limping as Mikey and Beaker walked her down the aisle, or that there was a stain on her mother’s dress that she had decided to leave in, or that it was pouring cats and dogs outside. It didn’t even matter that Pitiful had broken one of the windows of the tiny clapboard church, and knocked over a vase of flowers trying to see what the love of his life was up to.

  She didn’t even bat an eyelash when the ground rumbled with gentle shivers.

  All that mattered was that Ben was waiting for her at the end of the aisle.

  But it wasn’t until the vows were said, the rings exchanged, and the kisses given, that Emma noticed the boutonnieres in Mikey’s and Ben’s jackets, and she burst into laughter.

  Both men were wearing sprigs of moss.

  Letter from LakeWatch

  Dear Reader,

  I didn’t start out writing my stories for you, but rather for me. A switch, quite literally, flipped on in my brain just shy of my fortieth birthday, and unseen forces sent me scrambling to a computer when the imaginary people plaguing my dreams started insisting—quite loudly—that I get their stories down on paper. I wrote my first books in blissful ignorance, unschooled in such things as style, grammar, pacing, story arc, or plot. My only concern was to shut those people up.

  Ironically, considering I was a voracious reader, it never dawned on me that anyone else would be interested in reading my stories. I just wrote them just so that I could read them, and then I shoved them in the closet and started writing another one. But I eventually realized my characters didn’t really exist, because it takes someone else to read them to bring them to life.

  A thought is merely a thought until it is shared, and only then does it become a tangible thing. Until someone other than me reads one of my stories, it is only a massive collection of words. That’s what language is, after all: a means for one person to convey their thoughts to another.

  How cool is that? It doesn’t matter if you’re in Europe, Africa, Australia, Asia, South or North America, or even on the moon when you read one of my books, as you read, you are giving my characters life. You are seeing them through your own unique perspective based on your life experiences; judging them by your personal ethics, your hopes and dreams and emotional needs.

  So for taking these people out of my head and putting them into yours, I thank you.

  And I’m quite sure my characters also thank you.

  If you connect with them—if you love them or hate them—then I’ve done a good job. If you laugh out loud, get flustered, teary-eyed, disgusted, or downright angry, then I have managed to give you a very real experience.

  Only if you are indifferent do I feel that I’ve failed.

  I don’t like every person I meet. Do you? I don’t agree with everything everyone says, nor do I like some of the situations I find myself in, either. And I certainly don’t like how life turns out sometimes. So I don’t expect my readers to like everything in my books, and, quite honestly, I hope you don’t.

  When I pick up a book to read—be it from a favorite author, or one I haven’t tried before—I am usually searching for an emotional fix, depending on my mood at the time. Personally, I have only one requirement: that I don’t walk away from a story feeling bummed out, desolate, or without hope. I read romance novels because I like happy endings, and for that reason alone I write them.

  And I may be going out on a limb here, but I’m guessing that you read romances because you also wish to walk away believing that no matter how dire things seem, there is always hope. This need for a happy ending is sort of a universal theme, isn’t it? Hope is the ultimate human emotion. It is powerful enough to get us out of bed every morning even when that happy ending seems impossible, and it is as vast and timeless as the ocean.

  It wasn’t until my first book was published, Charming the Highlander, that I realized I no longer was writing just for myself, but for you, too. A good friend and very wise woman told me—when I first started dealing with editors, book reviewers, and bestseller lists—that no one can be in my studio with me, telling me how to tell my stories. I couldn’t let anyone sit on my shoulder censoring me, directing my creativity or insisting I make a character or situation fit their personal sensibilities.

  So I’m still writing foremost to please myself, and until that thought in my head is completed to my satisfaction, nobody reads my story—not my editor and certainly not you. And then the delicate dance begins, and we all come together to engage in a universal conversation of love and hope and happily ever after.

  Within days of my first book getting published, I started getting e-mails to my website from women the world over, telling me how something—a scene or character or situation—touched their hearts. I was blown away, as it still hadn’t really dawned on me that my stories might have any sort of impact on others.

&
nbsp; Well … try as I might to keep my writing studio free of earthly voices, I can’t stop you—my reader—from sitting on my shoulder. Only instead of censoring or directing me, I feel you cheering me on! So this is my shout-out to you: Thank you for your letters, for enjoying my stories, and for telling me that you do.

  That’s not to say that I don’t have my critiques, but realizing I can’t please everyone all of the time, I’ve decided to write stories for those of you who like reading them. If you like them, then feel free to tell me; if you don’t, then also feel free to tell me. Remember, it’s indifference that hurts. If I can’t get some sort of rise out of you, then I haven’t written a story that involves real people, much less the very real situations that greet each one of us every morning when we open our eyes.

  So you just keep on reading, and I’ll keep on writing.

  Until later, from LakeWatch … keep reading,

  Turn the page for a special look

  at the next novel in

  Janet Chapman’s

  Midnight Bay series

  Coming soon from Pocket Books

  “I’m going to be sick.” Maddy clutched her stomach.

  Eve laughed, pushing her hands out of the way to finish buttoning Maddy’s blouse. “That’s just your hormones doing a happy dance.”

  “I can’t believe I let you badger me into asking William on a date. When he said yes, I nearly threw up, and I couldn’t do a damn thing right the rest of the day.” She gave a nervous laugh. “I think I put Mem’s dentures to soak in ginger ale, and I know I sent Hiram home from the assisted-living center without any socks.”

  “It’s August—he probably wasn’t even wearing socks.”

  “But Hiram’s not a day camper; he lives there! Oh, what have I gotten myself into? It’s been so long since I’ve been on a date that I’ve forgotten what to do!” Eve laughed.

  “You think this is funny?”

  “I think this is payback,” Eve teased. “Are you forgetting helping me dress for my first date with Kenzie? I have about as much sympathy now as you had for me that night. Come on,” she said, pulling Maddy over to her old vanity.