Bear of a Honeymoon Read online

  "That would be me," Matt confirmed. "And really glad to finally meet you."

  "Me too," Dan said, relaxing his hold enough to allow me to resume breathing. "Although I don't know whether to offer congratulations or condolences." He shook his head dubiously. "You've got yourself a real bundle of trouble in this one."

  "Thanks for the testimonial," I growled, landing a playful left jab in his comfortably padded midsection.

  "See what I mean?" he gasped, doubling over in an elaborate display.

  "I know exactly what you mean," Matt smirked. He raised one sandy eyebrow archly.

  A burst of giggles from the corner informed us that Claire and Lynette were enjoying the show.

  "And there's more trouble," said Dan, inclining his head toward the girls. He leaned closer to Matt, speaking in a confidential stage whisper. "Think twice before you start turning out the rug-rats."

  "You're such a phoney, Dad," Claire piped. "What would you do without me?"

  "You're right," he conceded. "Keep the kid, skip the wife." Though the jibe was delivered in the same bantering tone, it made me feel uneasy and surely the shadow of a frown swept Claire's face as she herded Lynette out the door. Matt didn't seem to notice and the two men continued their repartee, acting like a pair of long lost fraternity brothers. Never one for playing the fifth wheel, I stepped out into the alley between the stalls. The girls had disappeared, leaving me at leisure to look around and contemplate what the heck was going on.

  The last time I stood in Dan's barn, it was a humble affair dating back to the origins of the lodge itself. My strongest recollection was of weathered boards, dusty beams, and cramped accommodation for half-a-dozen animals. Where that barn had gone, I had no idea. But it bore no resemblance to this wonder of contemporary equestrian design. Constructed of tongue-and-groove planks laid horizontally and stained a neutral tone, the new stable was a long, narrow affair. Stretching down one side of the roomy centre aisle, along with the tack room, I found a grain room, wash bay, office, and hay storage. Across the way, twelve large box stalls, each with private outdoor pens, lined the balmy south side. Handsome wooden nameplates identified the occupants of each luxurious compartment.

  I recognised one pampered tenant. Molly, a quarter horse brood mare, stood patiently nursing her latest offspring. The foal, spindle-legged, spiky-haired and absolutely adorable, paid me no attention. But Molly looked up with casual interest as I paused by her door.

  At the end stall, ironically labelled "Reno," I stopped to consider all the changes.

  Coupled with the six new cabins Brooke described when I called for reservations, we were talking sizeable capital investment. And this was on top of the steady string of improvements she and Dan had struggled to finance over the last twelve years. There was the west wing addition to the main lodge, kitchen and meeting room renovations and, most recently, completion of the pool and exercise atrium. Either the resort business had suddenly become a cash cow or my friends were closet lottery winners. Neither option seemed like an even-money bet.

  "Beauty, isn't he?" observed an amiable voice from out of nowhere. Even though I recognised the owner, the unexpected intrusion on my disturbing thoughts caused me to start. "Sorry," the new arrival said, laying a steadying hand on my shoulder. "I didn't mean to scare you."

  "That's okay," I assured him, turning to greet the middle-aged Indigenous gent I had often encountered at the lodge. Lyle Abel is a big man in every respect. Even with my considerable height, I had to tilt my head back to look into the serious dark eyes set deep in a broad, super-tanned face. His black hair, worn long and fastened at the nape of his neck, showed not the slightest hint of grey. Offering my hand, I watched it disappear like a fastball swallowed in a catcher's mitt. His was tough and callused and strong as a vice. But the grip was gentle and friendly. It was impossible to see past his massive shoulders. "How are you, Lyle?"

  "Good," he said. Then in his slow, deliberate style he added, "I heard you were coming for your honeymoon. Congratulations."

  "Thanks. You'll meet Matt soon. He's down there someplace with Dan," I waved vaguely toward the far end of the stable.

  "Already met him," Lyle informed me. "Dan's showing him the stud book."

  I must have looked puzzled.

  "For Reno," he said, to clarify.

  It didn't help.

  "Reno," he repeated, raising a skillet-sized hand to indicate the occupant of the stall next to us. "Our new quarter horse stallion. Dan and I are partners."

  "You're horse breeders?" My voice went shrill with surprise. I knew Dan had been involved in lots of grandiose schemes over the years, though most of them predated Brooke. But this sounded pretty far out for a guy in the resort business.

  "Don't look so shocked," Lyle replied with the slight rearrangement of his features that passed for a smile. "Dan always kept some horses for the guests of the lodge."

  "Sure," I countered. "A few old hacks for trail riding. But this..." I swept the palatial stable with a bewildered gaze. "And the cost of a stallion..."

  Roused by all the commotion outside his suite, the animal in question wandered over to the door and thrust his chestnut head between us.

  Lyle actually chuckled as he stroked the velvet nose. "Reno will soon pay for himself, won't you boy?"

  The horse was too busy to answer. Nostrils flared, Reno was systematically scouting Lyle's pockets for treats. A brisk snort heralded a discovery.

  "You're a clever one," Lyle crooned in his measured tones and withdrew a carrot from the pocket of his baggy jeans. "Would you like to feed him?" he asked.

  I eyed the big animal dubiously. Though I grew up on a farm, I know practically nothing about the equine world. We had cows. Lots of cows.

  "Go ahead," he coaxed. "Reno is gentle as a lamb. Here, I'll show you." Without waiting for a reply, Lyle took my hand in his and turned it palm upward. "Now squeeze with your palm so the carrot will stand upright," he instructed. I did as I was told and watched fascinated as the huge head descended toward the delectable tidbit. With remarkable gentility, Reno severed the carrot top and stood chewing contentedly. As he reached for the other half I prayed fervently that he knew horses are vegetarians. But I needn't have worried. A puff of warm breath played across my wrist and soft rubbery lips tickled my palm as he deftly extracted the last of his treat. When it was gone, he sniffed at me hopefully, but soon accepted that there was no more. Snorting succinctly, he retreated through his stall to the exercise yard beyond.

  "I always thought stallions were wild and aggressive," I observed. "He's just a big pussycat."

  Lyle nodded. "Most quarter horses are pretty good natured, but Reno is exceptional. That's one of the reasons we picked him. Mighty nice temperament to pass along."

  "And you expect a return on all this investment?" I asked, knowing it was none of my business—unable to let it alone.

  "I don't know about all this," said Lyle thoughtfully. "Dan and I are only partners on Reno and I know he'll do fine."

  Though he offered nothing more, pleading a list of chores with his name on it, Lyle had said enough. It didn't take a genius to recognise the strain these new expenditures must be putting on the Craddock finances. They would be under such tremendous pressure to keep the lodge fully booked that this afternoon's crisis with the travel agents was a potential disaster. No wonder Brooke was in such a state, though Dan didn't seem particularly bent—except for that backhanded remark about wives. Pondering these subtle undercurrents, I dawdled back toward the tack room.

  Matt and Dan were still hard at it. I wondered that two total strangers could find that much to talk about. But it was a great relief that my husband and one of my dearest friends should be hitting it off so well. The girls had also reappeared.

  "Oh, there you are," said Matt as I strolled through the door. "Where did you get to?"

  "I'm amazed you noticed I was gone," I remarked. "You two are like a couple of old ladies at a quilting bee."

  "Da
n and I have a lot in common," Matt informed me.

  "Yeah, I can see that. Dan's a cowboy—and you look like one." Matt made a nasty face. "Very droll, my dear," he observed in mockingly Oxford tones. "I'm sure you find yourself terribly amusing."

  "Terribly," I affirmed, sounding equally BBC. "I just keep them rolling in the aisles." And it was true. The girls had collapsed on the floor, clinging to one another in a giggle-fit.

  Dan groaned, "I thought it was Burns and Allan, not Anderson and Kerrick."

  "That's Anderson and Anderson," I corrected.

  One tufted eyebrow climbed Dan's generous forehead. "What happened to the ever-liberated Ms. Kerrick?" he demanded.

  "Holding down the byline," I said. "Off duty, we're the Andersons." "As you wish," he replied, sweeping an Elizabethan bow.

  I dropped an elaborate curtsy—stone-washed skinny jeans notwithstanding.

  Claire and Lynette were begging for mercy. At least they would have begged, if they'd been able to talk. Instead they writhed in a helpless, scarlet-faced bundle, clutching their middles and gasping for air.

  "I think we better call time-out," Matt suggested. "Before that pair need the paramedics."

  That was no help. Our two young friends were at the point where a root canal would have seemed hysterical. And it was contagious. I don't remember the last time I had such a serious case of the sillies. But we were quite a while coming to earth. When we finally managed to land, it was decided that the group should separate for the purpose of self-preservation.

  In an earlier moment of sanity, Dan had promised Matt some basic equestrian instruction and Claire was keen to show me the other changes since my last visit to the lodge. My husband and I parted company with a promise to reunite in time to clean up for the new arrivals' happy hour that we were told was now a Sunday evening institution.

  "Pretty impressive," I remarked as Claire led Lynette and me past the exercise pens, visiting mares' quarters, and breeding shed, toward the main path.

  "Yeah," she replied slowly. "Dad says we have to look the part."

  "How's that?" I asked, all innocence.

  "For Reno, you know. Dad says, if the place looks classy, people will feel better about laying out a big stud fee."

  "And what does your mom say?" I knew it was shameful, pumping my goddaughter for information this way, but my reporter's instincts were on yellow alert.

  Claire was silent for a moment, apparently choosing her words with care. She kicked a fist-sized pine cone from the path. When she finally spoke, the words came out so quietly, I had to strain to hear.

  "Mom's not very happy," was all she said.

  What a multitude of possibilities were implicit in that brief assertion. I was still trying to decide how to respond when a tall youth in army surplus strode into view. From the camouflage hat and stubble-lined jaw to battered hiking boots laced over pants, this young man was straight from a marine recruiting poster. The only thing missing was an assault rifle perched insolently on his hip. He wore the insolence on his face instead. But the sneer proved only semi-permanent. At the sight of my two companions, it softened into what, given the chance, could have become a very handsome smile.

  "Shane," cried Lynette in the high, thin voice I had almost never heard. She launched herself at young Rambo.

  "Hi, Lynnie, he said, scooping her effortlessly into muscle-bound arms. "Claire," he added with a quick grin for her friend.

  "Hi, Shane," she replied excitedly. "This is my Auntie Taylor. Shane is Lynettes's brother," she explained. "And he works here."

  "Is that right?" I offered my friendliest smile. "It's very nice to meet you."

  "Yes ma'am." He nodded in my direction, but his eyes, the colour of dark German chocolate, focused on a point somewhere beyond my left shoulder.

  "We've been up at the barn," Lynette informed him in a display of talkativeness that I would soon discover was reserved exclusively for her adored sibling.

  "Not gettin' into trouble, were you?" he asked, setting her back on the path, but keeping a protective hand on one slim shoulder.

  "No, silly. We were just messin' around. Saw Molly and her new foal."

  "How are they?"

  "Real good."

  "And now we're taking Auntie Taylor to see the new cabins," Claire added.

  "Okay," said Shane. "But you be sure and get home in time for supper, Lynette. We don't want Mom worryin' about you."

  Lynette nodded gravely and we were about to part company when a familiar figure hove into sight around the bend. Walt Craddock is the best-preserved septuagenarian I know. Though the fringe of hair visible under his wide Stetson had grown as white as the hat, it was still plentiful. The smoky blue eyes, a mirror of his son's, stared bright and alert from his round, weathered face. And though his cheeks and chins were as generous as his waistline, Walt's carriage was still proud and erect.

  Claire and Lynette grinned as broadly as I did, but Shane's disfiguring sneer was firmly back in place. "Gotta be goin'," he mumbled, and strode past us up the path.

  Naturally, my hyperactive curiosity was tweaked, but questions had to wait. Walt was upon us, and the next few minutes were filled with hearty greetings. With the promise of time for a good long chat when Matt could join us, we finally separated. The elder Craddock followed in Shane's wake while his granddaughter led me toward the lodge.

  It came into view almost immediately, a sprawling fortress of square-cut cedar topped by an eclectic assortment of dormers and gables testifying to its haphazard construction history. Yet, quirks and all, it managed a certain rustic elegance and its natural coloured ramparts rested harmoniously on the shores of the forest-bordered lake. At least that's how I saw it. But mine is the world of the concrete: the verifiable, reportable facts of a newspaper article.

  Idly I wondered what my husband would see if he stood by my side at that moment. What nuances would strike the eye of a practised professional photographer? Would he be drawn to individual details like the massive hand-hewn logs with their implication of strength and durability? Or would the artistic textures catch his eye, disorderly ranks of cedar shakes, marching across the irregular rooflines in a manic display of light and shadow? Maybe he'd take the macro view, composing in his mind's eye. Gauging the best angle for capturing the blend of natural and manmade elements—green-backed mountains, blue-foil lake, honey-coloured logs, deep blue sky. I'd seen enough of Matt's work to know the result would be intense and insightful. He was like a poet with a lens, his pictures more evocative than representative.

  A purposeful tug at my hand reminded me that two young ladies awaited my attention. "Nothing's changed at the main lodge," said Claire impatiently. "Come see the new cabins. You and Matt will be in Arbutus when the travel agents are gone."

  "On Tuesday," I said, obediently trailing my twin guides.

  "Yes. Mr. Legge will collect them before noon."

  "Who's Mr. Legge?"

  "Kenny Legge," Claire said, as though I should recognise the name. Then seeing my blank expression, "Didn't you ever meet him?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "Oh." She seemed surprised. "His family owned the lodge before Mom and Dad. Now he manages a motor hotel in town and he's president of the hospitality association. That's why he's showing the travel agents around. You'll meet him at happy hour."

  "That'll be nice," I said, the comment nothing more than a polite banality to which Claire's reaction was a surprise.

  "I doubt it," she said, with a grimace I saw echoed on Lynettes's cherubic face.

  "Why?" I demanded, wondering what it took to engender such revulsion in a pair of innocent schoolgirls. The possibilities were unsettling.

  But the answer was not forthcoming. For, with maddening timing the fates chose that exact moment to see us to our destination. And with the typical microscopic attention span of electronic-generation kids, Claire unconsciously switched gears.

  "Aren't the cabins super?" she beamed.

  Chapter
Five

  "Wish I were in one of those super cabins now," I grumbled at the languid scarlet teddy drooping listlessly from the nethermost branches of my favourite Saskatoon bush. A tiny pebble had somehow worked its way under my posterior and was digging uncomfortably into my own nether regions. I scrambled to my feet and did a round of stretches. For now, they served to relieve the stiffness. When the sun went down, something more strenuous would be needed.

  "Oh, stop thinking that way," I scolded myself. "I still might get to spend the night in a nice warm bed."

  Fat chance, scoffed my obstinately practical self. There isn't another living soul within ten miles of this ledge. You'll be lucky if anybody finds you tomorrow. Probably be out here for days.

  "Help!" I shouted, to silence the persistent voice.

  "Help!" I shouted again, to give myself hope.

  "Help!" I shouted one last time, just for something to do.

  But when the echoes faded, silence crowded in once more and I was powerless to escape my lonely thoughts. Dudley would be waiting in the cabin, his portly form sprawled in a quilted half-moon, his new friend, Nell, nestled drowsily against his comfortable bulk. And their purrs would fill the empty room with tranquil harmony. She had him all to herself now. Not like that day in Brooke's kitchen.

  When Claire and I returned from our tour, we'd found him on the terracotta tile floor, stretched full length in a patch of sunlight. Stationed on the hump of his substantial belly, his Lilliputian clone was taking on all comers, furiously wrestling each sibling rival in turn. Everyone seemed to think Dudley an enormously entertaining sort. But one mighty-mite clearly harboured notions of exclusivity and she was making her point with tooth and claw. Dudley seemed unconcerned. He simply rumbled like an indulgent uncle.

  By the time Matt appeared, the floor show had concluded. Dudley still lay in repose, a golden island in the sun. But the kittens had collapsed, dropping in their tracks to surround him in a furry archipelago. The high jinks were over and Matt had missed all the fun. Or that's what I thought. But it turned out that he and Dan had been having a pretty good time of their own. As we dressed for happy hour, my husband treated me to a blow-by-blow of his introduction to the world of saddle and spur.