Bear of a Honeymoon Page 3

  Rachel's eyebrows shot skyward and I didn't catch Edelman's response, delivered in a muffled undertone as he squared his shoulders and stepped aside. But the fury in Brooke's eyes gave me a pretty good clue.

  I was frankly astonished and Matt would think I was nuts. This was hardly the person I had praised to the heavens in my repeated descriptions of Brooke Craddock, former roommate and hotelier extraordinaire. The notion that her innate poise should falter, especially in the presence of a customer, regardless of how arrogant or vulgar, was beyond my ability to imagine. We detached ourselves from the crowd and approached the counter.

  "Bad day?" I asked in a bantering tone I hoped would break the tension.

  "The worst," Brooke affirmed with a half-hearted attempt at a grin when she recognised who was speaking. "But it's good to see you anyway." This was added with what sounded to me like a distinct lack of conviction.

  It was hardly the sort of greeting I would have predicted if you'd asked me an hour before. Still, there was little choice but to take it in stride. "Great to see you, too," I declared, despite my dampened enthusiasm. Reaching across the counter, I gave her arm an affectionate squeeze. "Look Brooke, things are obviously pretty hectic around here right now. How be if Matt and I just check in and head for our room? We can all get together later when you have more time."

  "The way things are going today, later isn't going to be any better than now," my friend groused, her tone as ungracious as I'd ever heard from her. "This must be Matt," she said, turning to my husband and thrusting a hand across the counter. "Welcome to the madhouse."

  "Pretty nice madhouse," he replied, shaking her hand and adding his million-dollar smile. The gesture reminded me of just one of the reasons why I'd fallen hopelessly in love. "Anything we can do to help?"

  A nervous tick twitched the corner of her mouth, but she managed to pull off a dust-dry tone. "Forgive me for giving away your room?"

  Chapter Three

  For a couple of beats the three of us froze in bizarre tableau. I have no idea what was going through anyone else's mind, but I was grappling with visions of vanished post-nuptial bliss—the less than delectable prospect of a honeymoon lacking that most basic of amenities—a bed.

  Then Brooke cracked. An imbecilic grin split her face, followed by a full-scale belly laugh. I scowled. Of course, this was my former friend's idea of a joke—her quirky sense of humour applied to the occasion of my marriage. When our unorthodox arrangements forestalled all the traditional approaches—no chance for confetti in the suitcase or a car festooned with inflated condoms—this was her revenge.

  "Not funny," I scolded.

  "Oh, but it is," she giggled. "I wish there were a mirror back here." "And you were kidding about the room?" Matt asked, clearly confused. His glance shifting uncertainly between us.

  Brooke's features fell like a curtain on the final act. "Afraid not," she admitted. "But if you could have seen your faces." The grin rekindled briefly, then died. "Believe me, it was the only bright spot in an otherwise hideous day."

  "Maybe you should fill us in," I suggested coldly, still not favourably impressed at being cast as the butt of her little jest.

  She shrugged. "A computer-generated nightmare."

  "What do you mean?" I pressed, though I moderated my tone in response to her stricken expression.

  "Somehow, we got a virus in the registration program," she said. "We had to reconstruct the bookings from memory."

  Matt and I groaned together.

  "It could have been worse," she assured us. "We back up regularly and most of the rooms were occupied by a single group. So far, we think we're only overbooked by one suite."

  "Ours," Matt supplied.

  Brooke nodded, "If you'll agree." She hurried on, shifting her gaze from Matt to me. "We can put you up in the family quarters. The spare room is all ready." Reading my mind, she added, "I know it's your honeymoon. But it's just for two nights—until the travel agents leave."

  "These people are travel agents?" Horrified, I scanned the muttering clusters of boot-faced patrons. My friend nodded solemnly. There was no need to explain. It didn't take a hotel owner to grasp the ramifications of fouling up what was obviously a promotional visit. I wondered how many potential referrals had already been lost because of the mess we'd seen. Brooke must be having fits. And knowing her formidable organisational skills had already been applied to the problem of our accommodation, there seemed no option but to accept her suggestion. Turning to Matt, I lifted my brows in silent inquiry.

  He answered promptly. "Suits me, but what about the Dudster?" The reference applied to Dudley, a portly feline of the orange tabby persuasion, who, no doubt, was growing impatient in the back of my little Toyota. I could imagine the saucer-eyed face, with its freckled pink nose extending through the black mesh of his carrier door.

  "No problem," Brooke assured him, releasing the breath she'd obviously been holding. "In fact, he may enjoy the company. Ritz has a family."

  "Who's Ritz?" Matt wanted to know.

  "The resident cat," I supplied, "named for her colour and her penchant for eating said crackers. And she has kittens?" I asked, turning to Brooke.

  "Five little fur balls," she confirmed, the dazzling smile, so well-remembered, finally shining through on full wattage. "Six weeks old and full of the dickens."

  "Did you hear that, Matt?" I beamed, clutching his arm.

  "Kittens in the honeymoon suite," he confirmed, laying the sarcasm on with a trowel. "What joy!"

  For a moment Brooke's smile faded. Then she noticed the wicked twinkle in those blue eyes and caught the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. She rolled her eyes in my direction. "I think it's time we got you settled in."

  "And out of your hair?"

  "You're psychic. Now let's find Shane, he'll help with your things."

  Brooke looked over my shoulder and I turned to follow her gaze as she scanned the concourse. It was quite a sight. A latticework of handhewn tree trunks climbed in intricate symmetry to the cedar plank ceiling ten metres above. Along the sides, twin galleries leading to the second-floor rooms, were connected by a cedar-railed bridge framing the entrance alcove below. The entrance itself, a massive pair of plank doors, cut through a two-storey wall of glass. Directly opposite, another glass wall rose to the gabled roofline, offering a show-stopping vista of Bear Lake and the round-shouldered mountains beyond. A conical stone fireplace soared through the centre of the great hall, surrounded by comfortable print armchairs and settees scattered around the room in cosy groupings.

  I don't know what I was looking for. At that point, I didn't know Shane from a hole in the wall. But what I saw was a pony-tailed blonde, with a beaver-toothed grin, threading her way through the diminished crowd at a half trot.

  "Auntie Taylor," she cried, nearly bowling me over with a flying-tackle hug. "You're here!"

  "We certainly are," I laughed, giving my goddaughter a squeeze. "How are you, Little One?"

  "Not so little anymore," she countered, backing away a pace and studying me with her twelve-year-old-going-on-grown-up gaze. I studied her right back. In the two years since our last meeting Claire Craddock had grown about a foot. Her round, little-girl features had thinned and the long, straight hair was a shade or two darker. "How was your trip?"

  "Absolutely wonderful," I replied with complete honesty. "The drive through the mountains is too beautiful for words. And I had great company," I added, drawing Matt forward for introductions.

  Claire extended her hand in a typically adult gesture.

  "Not good enough," declared Matt, scooping her into his muscular arms and sweeping her in a three-sixty whirl. "I've been hearing about you non-stop all the way from the Coast. We're practically related."

  Claire giggled as he set her down and a becoming shade of rose climbed her cheeks. "I knew you'd be a crazy person."

  "And how did you know that?" Matt asked before her mother could voice the reprimand I saw rising in her throat.


  "Because you married Auntie Taylor." Another giggle.

  "Claire," her mother exploded. "Sometimes I just can't believe the things you say."

  "Kids," Matt agreed with a wink for Claire and a commiserating nod for the apoplectic mother. "How be we take her off your hands?"

  "Permanently?" Brooke sounded hopeful.

  "Or at least until she shows us our room."

  Brooke feigned disappointment. "If that's the best you can do."

  "Come on Short Stuff," Matt said, clamping a hand on one slender shoulder and steering her toward the door, "Time to retreat."

  "Oh, Claire," Brooke called as an apparent afterthought, "where's your Dad?"

  "Don't know," Claire replied, accelerating her pace toward the door.

  I didn't catch much of Brooke's muttered reaction, but I'm pretty sure it had something to do with Dan and damned horses. From the look on her face, she wasn't too happy with either, though I had no further chance to speculate. My companions had already disappeared through the big double doors.

  With Claire in charge of Dudley, and Matt and I loaded like a couple of pack mules, we made it to the family quarters in one trip. On my previous visits, I'd never occupied the spare room. Brooke always insisted I enjoy the full benefit of a private suite in the main lodge. But of course, I'd seen it before and knew what to expect. Like the rest of the spacious three-bedroom unit, it reflected Brooke's terrific style and taste.

  Consistent with her overall theme of gracious mountain living, a vintage pine four-poster—with matching dresser, mirror, and side chairs—dominated the room. Mattress, shams, throws, and pillow-thick duvet wore coordinated cottons in earthy shades of russet and sage. Groupings of nature prints decorated the butterscotch painted walls and a Sonora-style area rug warmed the mid-tone hardwood floor.

  "You can put the kitty litter in there," Claire suggested, inclining her head toward a partially open pocket door as she deposited Dudley's carrier on the bed. "That's the bathroom we'll be sharing."

  "Oh lord," Matt groaned, "sharing a bathroom with two women." He shook his head doubtfully as he bent to open the carrier door. "I don't know Dudster, isn't there some kind of law against cruel and unusual punishment?"

  "I'll give you cruel and unusual," I said, tweaking his delectable derriere and momentarily regretting Claire's presence. Oh well, it was only for two days. Reluctantly I diverted my attention to Dudley who had lazily emerged from his travelling case and promptly arranged himself in a comfortable ball in the middle of the bed. "Come on, Big Guy," I coaxed, "let's go meet our other feline roommates."

  Dudley raised his massive orange head and fixed me with a green-eyed stare that never wavered as he raised his right hind leg to a gymnastic angle and began grooming it with studied nonchalance.

  "Or not," I conceded, marvelling at my own foolishness. Of all people, I should know that Dudley only does what Dudley wants to do—when Dudley wants to do it. Turning to Claire, I motioned for her to precede us from the room. "His majesty will not be accompanying us at this time. But I'm dying to see those kittens."

  "Right this way," she announced and the three of us eagerly turned our backs on the clutter of unopened suitcases.

  We found Ritz and her family in the kitchen. She was easily identifiable, predominantly white with occasional tufts of orange haphazardly dotting her flank. Quietly napping in an oversized wicker basket, one ear twitched and her eyes opened a crack at our approach. But she saw Claire and acknowledged our peaceful intentions by allowing her lids to grow heavy once more.

  The kittens were not as easy to distinguish. Nestled in the protective crescent of their mother's cosy body, they lay packed like a multi-coloured muff of short, spiky fur. Though two rosy noses, a couple of pinkie-sized tails, and an assortment of triangular ears were clearly visible, there was no reliable way of telling where one kitten left off and another began.

  "They're wonderful," I crooned. "Will she let us pick them up?"

  "Oh sure." Claire squatted beside the basket. "We've come to see your babies," she said, running a gentle hand along the mother's silken flank.

  Ritz responded predictably with a deep-throated purr.

  Detaching a fluffy handful from the amorphous bundle, Claire passed it to me, then repeated the process for Matt and herself. Obviously well accustomed to human contact, the drowsy morsels made not the slightest protest. The miniature tabby cradled in my open palm, seemed absurdly content as I stroked its plump tummy with a single outstretched finger.

  "This one looks just like Dudley," I said

  "Not mine," Matt quipped. "It's awake."

  My defence of Dudley's honour, including the smart punch I had aimed at Matt's upper arm, was interrupted by a timid knock. Without further preamble, the kitchen door swung open, admitting a single, tow-headed pixie.

  "Hey Claire, your Dad's lookin'—" The rest of the message evaporated and the newcomer's face froze in a mask of wide-eyed apprehension when she realised her friend was not alone.

  "Oh hi, Lynette," Claire called, dropping her kitten into the basket as she hurried forward to grasp the young girl's hand before she could scuttle back out the door. "This is my Auntie Taylor, the one I was telling you about. And her new husband, Matt."

  I smiled, in part at the reference to my "new husband," idly wondering what had become of the old one, and added a warm "Hello," to Matt's greeting. Lynette recoiled as though she'd been slapped. Virtually cowering behind her more substantial friend, the child made herself seem smaller than ever.

  Claire never missed a beat. "I guess Dad's looking for me," she said conversationally, draping a comforting arm around the diminutive shoulders.

  The confirmation was a barely perceptible nod.

  "Is he up at the barn?"

  Another nod, maybe slightly more assured. It was hard to tell.

  "Then let's go. Come on Matt, Auntie Tee. We'll see what Dad wants, then take you on the grand tour."

  As we reunited our kittens with their siblings, Matt shot me a questioning glance. He knows how I hate abbreviations of my name. "The kid gets to take liberties," I explained, pushing him out the door. "Don't get any ideas."

  "Oh, I'll take my own liberties," he predicted, bending to whisper in my ear, "but it won't be with your name."

  I stuck my foot out to trip him, but he only stumbled a step or two, then countered with a hip-check that sent me flying off the path. When I regained my equilibrium, Claire was glaring over her shoulder wearing a look of adult disapproval. Presumably it was her way of joining in the fun. But with Claire you could never be absolutely sure. Discretion being the better part of valour, I decided to clean up my act and behave in front of her little friend. Matt must have got the same message, because he took my hand and led me sedately in their wake.

  From the family quarters, which constitute the southeast wing of the lodge, we followed a worn trail through the park-like bush that screened the road. Many of the trees were elderly pines, their massive red-barked trunks rising pole-straight into the spring sunshine. Far overhead branches stirred in a ripple of breeze and the heady scent of natural evergreen caressed our urban noses.

  "Look at this," Matt said. He had bent to retrieve a fallen sprig of needles from the ground. "These guys must be five or six inches long."

  "Bizarre, aren't they," I agreed. "Ponderosa pine." This was not a tidbit of information acquired through long association. My first encounter with these porcupine-like giants had occurred after my move to the Coast.

  "How did an eastern farm girl learn so much about western conifers?"

  "Same way a San Francisco dock rat learned what he knows about pollution in Taiwan," I said. "On assignment. A while back I did a feature on the logging industry."

  "Is that one of the articles Ben Palasco has framed?"

  "Afraid so," I confirmed. One wall of my editor's office is lined with what he regards as the best pieces ever run by our paper and he's embarrassingly quick to point out the ones w
ith the Taylor Kerrick byline.

  "He's mighty proud of you," Matt said quietly, maybe a touch wistfully. I stole a glance at his profile, but as usual his face gave nothing away—nothing personal at least. Matt was one of the most expressive people I knew—about everything but Matt.

  I suppose it was natural for him to envy my relationship with Ben. We'd been close for such a long time, even before the death of my father, who'd been our mutual link. Matt never knew his own dad. And the string of gents-du-jour his mother paraded through their house had hardly been a reasonable substitute. Not that Matt ever mentioned any of this. It had taken my best investigative skills to ferret out the details. And that was scary in itself. Sometimes I wondered how well I might ever know this man with whom I'd so recently agreed to share my life.

  "Come on you two," called Claire from far down the path.

  Duly chastised, we smartened our pace and in no time were across the road, beyond the parking lot, and climbing the hill beside a pasture fence.

  "Must be getting close," Matt observed, twitching his nose like a jackrabbit testing the wind. The earthy aroma of horse and hay had reached me too.

  Chapter Four

  We found Dan Craddock perched on a stool in the tack room, a stocky figure in jeans and polo shirt, whose comfortably worn boots were a match for Matt's own. Thick muscles rippled the fine hairs on his arms as he worked Dubbin into the seat of an intricately tooled saddle. His forehead, reaching a little higher than I remembered into his unruly strawberry hairline, wore creases of concentration.

  "Taylor," he boomed as we entered, dropping the cloth and bounding over to wrap me in a rib-shattering hug.

  I would have responded, but there was no air left in my lungs. He still had me in a one-armed grip as he turned to pump Matt's hand.

  "And you're the new hubby," he declared, with a massive grin that revealed a row of blazing white teeth just uneven enough to give his smile character. Friendly crow's feet fanned the corners of his sparkling smoky blue eyes.