A Promise of Fireflies (48 page)

Logan took her face in his hands and brushed his lips to hers. When his mouth covered hers, the room disappeared in a fog, and she gave way to the weeks lost in one restless kiss, one whose uncertainty spoke of gentleness, but one whose promise gave way to the power of complete affirmation.

“No,” Natalie said, “wait—”

Ryleigh turned. Chandler yanked his arm from Natalie’s grasp, his eyes narrowed.

“Oh, God,” she said.

In a few long strides, Chandler reached the door and pulled. The locks rattled. Natalie straightened a pile of children’s books.

“Chandler,” Ryleigh whispered into Logan’s chest.

Logan shifted one foot between hers, hips set firmly against hers.

“I have to talk to him.”

His eyes pleaded. “Let him go.”

Ryleigh placed her hand on his cheek, the stubble awakening sensations nearly lost over time. “I love you, Logan Cavanaugh,” she said, searching his face, “but I loved him first and I need to talk to him.”

He hesitated and then let her go.

Ryleigh approached the man she’d spent over half her life with. “I’m sorry you had to witness this, Chandler.” She took no pleasure in the pain written on his face, and took his arm to lessen it. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“By kissing another man? You’re my wife!”

“I was. A lifetime ago.” Ryleigh lowered her head, and then raised it to meet his eyes. “I told you months ago we can’t be together.”

“I didn’t believe you.” Bitterness dripped from his words. “I couldn’t.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

“I thought you’d come around,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “I’ve carried this with me, hoping…” His voice trailed and he closed her hand around the mate to her wedding ring.

Logan took two steps forward. Ryleigh sensed the movement, caught his eye and then shook her head.

“You should go, Chandler. Wanda will see you out.”

“Riles,” he said, and touched her face. “Can I kiss you goodbye?” With his thumb, he kneaded her cheek. “It doesn’t have to mean anything to you, but it would to me. Sort of the beginning of the end.”

“I’m sorry.” Ryleigh removed his hand and stepped back. “But you put the period at the end of us a long time ago.”

Logan closed the space between them and stood beside her, one foot in front of her, his presence a shield against the irascible climate. He eyed Chandler with cool wariness and straightened, his shoulders broader and several inches over Chandler’s, not a small man himself. Ryleigh glanced from one to the other, the air restless and percolating with tension. Yet despite the serious nature of the situation she held her breath and bit her lip to keep from laughing.

Chandler rose to full height, which reminded her of a somewhat underinflated puffer fish, took several steps back, and made a clean swipe at a stack of books that sent them crashing to the floor. He pushed the hair from his face and left through the back of the store.

Logan gathered her into his arms. “You all right?”

Ryleigh let go a breath and slapped a hand over her nose and mouth to stop the air from maturing into an unrestrained snicker.

“Am I to assume a rumble in a bookshop is amusing?”

“No, of course not. Well, maybe a little,” she said, and laughed. “It’s just…I’ve never had anyone fight over me before. It’s kind of barbaric. And cute.”

“Barbaric I can handle.” He raised an eyebrow. “But cute?” He winced unconvincingly, the amusement deepening the creases around his eyes.

She leaned into him. “I thought it was cute you stood ready for battle,” she said, and tucked her lips at the bubbling humor.

“Sei mia, mia dolce cara. La mia vita per la tua.”

“What’d you say?”

“I’m not quite sure I know myself, but it’s neither barbaric nor cute. I hope.” Sincerity softened the amusement on his face. “But I know what I meant to say.”

“Tell me, please?”

He stared back at her, his eyes purposeful and selfless and somehow reckless. “You are mine, my dearest sweetheart,” he said, inky brown discs never wavering from hers. “My life for yours.”

The words to any sort of suitable reply beat its wings hopelessly against her stomach. She studied his face, one carved by the magic of time, the one that held her spellbound to the man it belonged to. His smile, tawny eyes, and handsome lines carved from the beautifully knitted scars of a broken heart—all a comfortable reminder of the sum of him. “The roses. From you?”

“A rose each for the ones you’ve lost,” he said, “and for each of the twelve weeks we have lost.”

“Ambrose.” She swallowed hard. “Two months ago.” Surely it wasn’t him she glimpsed among the crowd? As impossible as it seemed, she’d carry that glimpse—that small ray of hope—with her forever. But how did he know? The man truly had been carved from the ages of time and as he had told her, love is ageless. Somehow she thought he might be, too.

“I’m sorry.” Logan brushed a strand of hair caught in the moisture of her tears. “I should have been there for you. To ease the pain of loss.”

“Please don’t apologize.” Joy softened her features. “My pain stopped the moment you took me in your arms.”

Logan held her as if letting go would cause her to slip away again. “The tickets,” he said, pointing to his yet unsigned copy of
Firefly Pond.
“We have a flight to catch.”

“Today?” She scrunched her nose. “Where are you taking me?”

“St. Louis.”

“Why St. Louis?”

“It’s a surprise,” he said, a hint of the mischievous boy he must have been peered from beneath eyes gone bright as copper pennies.

“I don’t care much for surprises.”

He raised her hand and kissed the back, long and purposeful. “There’s one more thing you can count on, Cabin Number Three,” he said with decisive amusement. “You’ll grow to love my surprises. And that’s a promise.”

She answered with a wide smile.

Natalie cleared her throat and dragged Mitch from their perch. Wanda followed, restacking the toppled pile of books. Wiping the residue of her tears, Natalie pulled Ryleigh away from Logan and hugged her best friend.

Introductions were made, though none were needed.

“You knew about this, didn’t you?”

Natalie and Logan exchanged a knowing smile.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

“WHERE ARE WE?”

“Near the Zahorsky Woods.”

“Are we still in Missouri?”

“We are,” he grinned, “Near Steeleville at the base of the Ozarks.”

The road narrowed. The Z4 convertible roadster hugged the asphalt as they drove farther into the dense overhangs of sycamore and silver maple. Logan slowed and turned on a neatly maintained road, tires spitting gravel behind them. A vine-covered stone villa emerged through a copse of trees.

Ryleigh straightened. “You sure this isn’t Italy?”

Logan set the brake and Ryleigh clambered from the car. He opened his door and leaned against it, the tap of the cooling engine a soothing rhythm to an eager heartbeat. Moist air, heavy with the balm of pitch and chatter of birds carried in the breeze, and Ryleigh spun in a lazy circle a few yards away absorbing every detail. With his eyes, he followed her legs, long and lean and draped in denim, and drifted down the line of buttons on her white cotton top and over soft, round shoulders, bringing to life the feminine curves of his memories. And whose voice was like an angel’s sigh.
“Il mio angelo.
My angel. My angel in blue jeans.” And he marveled at how she celebrated things most took for granted. He’d show her all of God’s majesty, if she would let him. But the light that shined within her he cherished above all.

“It’s gorgeous,” she said, settling into the crook of his arm.

He tucked her close. The sun, an exaggerated orange ball, hung near the horizon against the canvas of a sun-bleached blue sky, merging their shadows into one dark pool. “Welcome to Dolomite Falls Resort, Cabin Number Three. A touch of Italy tucked into the Ozarks.”

“Don’t tell me this is one of your resorts too?”

“Okay. I won’t.”

“Smart-ass,” she mumbled and jabbed him playfully in the ribs. “Do you own anything that isn’t knock-out gorgeous?”

He lifted her chin, his thumb gently stroking her ear. “I have discerning taste, so the answer is no. Sometimes it’s obvious. The breathtaking beauty…” he said, glancing around. “Sometimes it’s hidden beneath the surface. The first time I looked in your gentle eyes,” he said, “I saw both.” Logan brushed his lips against them, kissing them softly, one and then the other.

“Gentle?”

“Gentle heart. Gentle soul.” He smiled. “Mirrored in your eyes.”

“You haven’t seen me angry.”

“I’ve seen enough to want to know all that’s hidden there,” he whispered, smoothing her hair from her face. “The verdant green ones that smile, the storm clouds that brew in the angry ones, and the passion of the deepest ocean, the ones that say ‘yes.’”

“Yes.”

He touched her mouth with his fingers. “And I want to know your smile. The pouty one and the one that warns me to tread lightly. But mostly the happy one, the one that says ‘yes.’”

“Yes, yes, and yes.”

Her words formed around a brilliant smile, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat the melody to a song he prayed would not end until life no longer coursed through his body. “Then I’ll put them together—those everyone sees, the ones unseen, and those reserved only for me.”

He was met with puzzlement and he smiled down at her. “I see things most don’t, Cabin Number Three. It’s the reason I’m good at what I do, choosing locations with endless possibilities for our resorts, as I did this one. And as I see in you.”

“It’s truly beautiful here.”

“It’s not Italy, but it’ll do. For now. It’s more secluded than some of our other resorts, and I know how much you value solitude.”

“Emily Dickinson and I.”

“Both purveyors of words, lovers of solitude.”

She leaned against him. “Sometimes words get in the way.”

He felt the words as if she’d whispered them against his skin. “You say it best when you say nothing at all.” Ryleigh turned to him, her response clearly written in the quirk of her smile and reflection in her eyes. He took her hand and gestured toward the house. “This is the family villa, secluded from the resort.”

They walked arm in arm, but before they reached the entrance a young man emerged whistling to the melody of a jangle of keys. “Mr. Cavanaugh,” he choked, extending his hand.

Logan shook his hand. “Good to see you, Nathan.”

“I didn’t expect you and Ms. Collins this early.”

Logan nodded toward the Beemer. “Fully loaded street rocket,” he mused. “It’s not easy maintaining the speed limit.”

Nathan whistled.

Ryleigh nudged Logan in the ribs. “He thinks the speed limit’s a guideline, and certainly not for him.”

“Look who’s talking, leadfoot,” Logan said, and laughed. “Remember the snowmobiles?”

Ryleigh rolled her eyes.

Logan planted a hand on his hip and pulled Ryleigh close with the other. “Has everything been taken care of?”

“Yes, sir.”

Logan felt rather than heard the hesitation. “Is there something you’re hesitant to tell me?”

“The wine delivery was late and I had to put pressure on the vintner. But she came through and everything is as you requested.”

Logan smiled at the young man’s guile. “Nothing less than I would have done, Nathan.”

Nathan raised his chin and nodded. “Enjoy your stay, Ms. Collins. Mr. Cavanaugh.” He turned and walked away and then turned back, grinning widely. “Oh, and by the way, Mr. Cavanaugh, it’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back.”

Logan led Ryleigh inside.

“He’s a keeper. Knows the ins and outs of keeping the family residences stocked. And if I have anything to say about it, he’ll be as good as Rose someday.”

VINES CLUNG TO
the exterior of the villa, its red tiled roof the instrument a hard rain would use to strum its melody, but the crumbled plaster inside revealed the brick bones of the wall beneath and massive rough-hewn beams stretched across the ceilings. Though designed with modern amenities, the stone building could have been tucked into the hills of Tuscany time had overlooked.

Ryleigh spun a pirouette around the room. Everywhere she looked was another testament to this man’s attention to detail and her eyes settled on a stone vase filled with five white roses. She touched each one reflectively, each one a gentle reminder of those she’d lost. A jardinière of green M&M’s sat next to the roses, a white “R” stamped on each one. For her? For her father? Without question, she knew it to be both.

Several bottles of Italian wine were nestled in a metal basket on the counter. Logan chose a bottle and twisted the opener until the cork popped free, the familiar aroma of red chilies, plums, and the subtle hint of chocolate rising in a wisp as he poured their glasses. He flipped a switch and music filled the villa.

He hadn’t forgotten anything, every detail a memory clothed in the compassion of the man who watched her with a quiet sense of pleasure.