All Through The House Read online

  The crux of every conversation. If they built the school. If they won the contract, their business would be an instant success. The city would be wooing them, not the other way around. They would have contributed to the community. And Nate could buy the Irving House.

  Dreams. Too many riding for a fall.

  What about Abigail McLeod's dreams? Nate shoved his guilt back in his gut where it had been churning all week. If he bought the Irving House, her dreams would be attained, too. She didn't care who bought it, just that it sold. He was as good as any other buyer. What difference did a month or so make to her?

  He'd reached for the phone a dozen times that week, guilt warring with his desire to hear her voice again, see her green-brown eyes and her smile, touch her dark curls, her lips, her slender throat. And each time he'd tasted acid in his mouth. He still didn't know what his choice would be, if he had to make one. He'd wanted the house all his life. He'd wanted her for little over a week.

  Until this was settled, he should leave her alone. He should never have walked into her office that day. Trouble was, then, she was just a pretty woman. Then, he hadn't kissed her. Now? Now his lies were handcuffs that bit into him every time he was too tempted.

  "Want to talk about it?" John said.

  "Talk about what?"

  His partner was an unusually big man, pushing forty, with short dark hair graying at the temples and a deceptively gentle manner. John Mercer almost never raised his voice, but he reveled in confrontation. Nate often contrasted his friend with Ed Phillips, since they were the two contractors he'd worked most closely with. Both were aggressive men, but in different ways. Phillips blustered and bellowed and cursed; John sliced with a stiletto so sharp the wound didn't show. His talent meant that subcontractors, bank officers, and county building inspectors wanted to cooperate. Phillips made them afraid not to.

  Now John raised a dark brow. His deep brown eyes were shrewd. "You've had something on your mind all week. What are you doing, thinking about adding a few turrets to the school?"

  Nate shoved his hands into his pockets and gazed broodingly at the raw land. "Are we getting symbolic here?"

  "Why not? At least you're listening to me."

  Nate wondered how much his partner really wanted to hear. He approached the truth indirectly. "The Irving House is going to be sold right out from under me."

  "Somebody interested?"

  "Not yet. But I have a bad feeling., The listing agent has pulled out all the stops."

  "Nate, what are we talking about here?"

  "I took her out to dinner Friday night."

  The big man swung to face him. "Jesus, Nate...."

  "Not because she's the listing agent," Nate said gloomily. "Despite it."

  A pause. "Then what's the problem?"

  Nate hesitated. "I guess you might say...we're antagonists."

  "You don't want the house to sell. She does. So what?"

  So what? He was trying to cut her feet out from under her, that's what. Then again, she didn't know it. And with luck, the situation would never arise again.

  "Yeah," he said slowly. "You're right." Wasn't having it all the great American dream?

  *****

  Abigail's reaction to Nate's voice on the phone was uncomfortably complex. Relief, anger, exhilaration. She felt like a teenager, sulky because he hadn't called sooner, thrilled because he had now. She didn't like it. Women were trapped by that kind of need.

  "Nate," she said, in a voice that betrayed none of her emotions. "How are you?"

  "Hey, I still have a place to live. Can't ask for much more than that."

  "Have you talked to a Susan Richards from Realty World? She plans to show the house."

  There was a moment of silence. "No, she hasn't called."

  "I'm sure she will," Abigail said, "because she wants to know ahead of time whether you have a cat. Her client is allergic."

  "A cat? I'm afraid so. Is that a problem?"

  "It may be. You can talk to the agent yourself. If your cat's outside most of the time, maybe...."

  "I'll talk to her," he said, without much interest. "How's your week gone?"

  "Oh, not bad." Abigail told him about the house she'd sold to the Petersons, a modern monstrosity with Greek columns across the front that looked hideously out of place in its Northwest setting. "They're delighted, though Mrs. Peterson said something wistful about the Irving House. She really loved it."

  "How about you?" he asked unexpectedly. "Could you love it?"

  Could she? What an odd way of putting it. "Yes," she said slowly. "I've always liked old houses. I know my four-year-old would adore the ballroom."

  "Speaking of Kate," he said, "I called to find out if you two are free tomorrow or Sunday. I thought we could hike up to the ice caves at Big Four."

  "Do you know, I've never been there," Abigail admitted, thinking quickly. If she were smart, she'd call an end to this now. Nate awakened dangerous feelings in her. She wasn't ready for a serious relationship, and Nate made her want more than a casual one. Still, she'd enjoyed the other night, and Kate would love a hike. "Sure," she said. "Hold on and let me check with Meg."

  Putting his call on hold, she raised her voice. "Meg, do you care whether you work Saturday or Sunday?"

  "Nope," her partner's voice floated from her own office. "Not if you have a hot prospect."

  Hot, maybe, Abigail thought wryly. But not quite in the way Meg had in mind.

  "Either day would be good for us," she told Nate. They made arrangements for the next morning. "I'll provide the lunch," she said firmly. "If you picked the wrong brand of peanut butter, we'd be in trouble."

  "Picky, huh?"

  "Normal," she said. "Thank you for including her, Nate."

  "We're meant for each other. We rhyme, remember?"

  So they did. She only hoped he wouldn't break her daughter's heart, too.

  *****

  "Here we are," Nate announced, and Abigail turned the car into the parking lot at the foot of Big Four, the precipitate, glacier-clad mountain that harbored ice caves. Nate had suggested she drive, since his pickup had only two bucket seats.

  The drive hadn't been long, but Abigail was surprised afresh at how dramatically the scenery had changed. After leaving the small town of Granite Falls, the road wound through the Robe Valley, following the south fork of the Stillaguamish River. Here it was clear and cold, cutting deep-green fishing holes and frothing over gray rocks. Once past the ranger station and in the national forest, the foothills rose dark green to the rock and snow of the mountains above. Here beside the parking lot was a mountain meadow as peaceful as anyplace Abigail could remember.

  There had been a resort hotel here long ago that had burned to the ground, leaving only one stone chimney. A few picnic tables dotted the meadow. As Nate locked the car, Abigail helped Kate shrug into the small day pack she'd insisted on carrying with her own lunch in it.

  Nate grinned, the grooves in his cheeks deepening. "Are the women carrying the chow?"

  "You bet," Abigail said cheerfully. "The men can carry the garbage out."

  "It's a deal. You ready, short stuff?"

  Kate nodded shyly. In pink denim jeans and Little Mermaid T-shirt, she looked astonishingly grown up. She'd be starting kindergarten in little over a year. Abigail’s heart squeezed. Thank God for Kate, she thought fervently.

  She had worn shorts herself and a sturdy pair of running shoes. Abigail wasn't sure whether to be glad of the shorts or sorry when Nate's gaze flicked down the bare, lightly tanned length of her legs. His eyes had darkened when they met hers again, and for just an instant the silence was stifling.

  Then Kate said, "Can we go?"

  "Why not?" Nate said, gesturing gallantly. "Ladies first."

  The trail led on a boardwalk across the wet meadow. Water trickled beneath the walk and the grass was long and lush. Abigail saw the small splash of a frog diving in and pointed it out to Kate, who squatted with the ease of the young, her nose
almost down to the water.

  Nate watched her with an odd expression. "I have a niece about her age," he said finally. "I don't see much of her."

  "How many brothers and sisters do you have?"

  "One sister, two brothers. We're not close. We get together on Thanksgiving, that's about it."

  When they were under way again, Abigail said, "My mother is here in Seattle. I'm grateful for that. Dad's dead, and my sister lives back East, so we don't see her often. At least Kate has her grandmother."

  "To spoil her rotten?"

  "Grandma gave me this shirt," Kate contributed from her spot in the lead. "And a My Little Pony shirt, too. It's pink."

  "Your favorite color?"

  She shook her head and dark curls bobbed. "I like green. Mommy's eyes are green, you know."

  He glanced at Abigail. "I noticed. They're very pretty."

  "Thank you," Abigail murmured. She dropped back just a little when Nate said something to her daughter, and watched the two together. Kate was small and sturdy, her ponytail bobbing and her voice high.

  In contrast to the child, Nate looked even taller and leaner and more dangerous. His dark-blond hair was just long enough to curl against his neck, while a lock wanted to hang over his forehead. He kept shoving it impatiently back. In faded denim jeans and a gray T-shirt, he reminded Abigail of the first time she'd seen him, plumbing wrench in hand. He looked like he should be a workingman, the contractor half of his partnership. Only his hands gave him away. His brown forearms rippled with an easy play of muscle when he tugged Kate's ponytail as he said something teasing to her, but his long fingers were unmarred and expressive. She loved his hands, Abigail thought dreamily.

  She was brought back to herself by the muted roar of the river, still full with snow-melt this first day of July. They reached the stairs up to the timber bridge, but Kate dug in her heels at the bottom.

  "Can we wade?" she pleaded.

  "Why don't we do it on our way down?" Nate suggested. "Our feet will need a soak then."

  She loved his voice, too, Abigail thought; rough-timbred, it was unmistakable and very sensual.

  Kate nodded docilely, and Abigail rolled her eyes. If she had been the one to refuse her daughter, the result would have been different. Kate might be almost five years old, but she was still capable of throwing temper tantrums. Or whining at the very least.

  But, no, she took Nate's proffered hand and let him help boost her up the steep plank steps. After peering through the railing at the river, she galloped ahead. The wooden bridge thundered under her Ked-clad feet.

  Oh, well. Maybe it was his voice. It was enough to make Abigail want to do what he suggested, too.

  Pausing right over the river, Abigail took a deep breath and gazed down at the icy, jade-green water. She could see it through the cracks between planks beneath her feet, too. The sight was enough to remind her of another pool of water: on the ballroom floor.

  She lifted her gaze to Nate's. "By the way, how are the roofers coming along?"

  A muscle in his cheek twitched, but he said equably, "Done, I think. There were just a few loose shingles. No wonder. That's a damned steep roof to work on. Someone just got careless."

  "You sound more tolerant than Ed Phillips," Abigail commented.

  Nate's expression became shuttered. "Ed doesn't have much patience for human weakness."

  "I...had that impression, too," she admitted, wondering if she'd stepped off the straight-and-narrow. She usually didn't discuss clients. Curiosity drove her to take one more small step. "I also have the impression that you don't like Ed very much."

  Nate's shoulders moved in a shrug of apparent indifference. "I got my start around here working for Ed. We had a parting of the ways."

  His tone didn't exactly forbid any more questions, but something made her doubt they were welcome. Well, he hadn't told her anything she couldn't have guessed. What's more, she would be willing to bet the dislike was mutual. Which left a big question. Why did Nate live in a house Ed owned and was trying to sell out from under him?

  Past the river, the trail began to switch back up through deep forest. They were shaded by tall Douglas firs and cedars. Huge, rotting fallen trees and stumps wide enough for a man to lay across were a testimonial to a time before man had logged the Northwest.

  They paused once at a small creek that trickled across the trail for a drink from cupped hands. Kate marched along with admirable determination and a child's energy. The mile was little more than a stroll for Nate with his long legs, hampered by a four-year-old's pace. He and Abigail talked desultorily, enjoying the rare silence. They passed several family groups on the trail, but in between they heard no cars or other voices, only a primeval silence. Abigail felt herself relaxing as she hadn't in months. Years.

  They emerged at last into the hot sun at the foot of the mountain. The trail petered out between the huge rocks of the talus. Above was the ice field, undercut at the bottom where it melted into a trickle of water that made the rocks slick underfoot.

  Some kids were sliding on a piece of cardboard down the snowy slope, yelling in voices that echoed from the rock face of the mountain above. Patches of tiny wildflowers grew in the gritty soil between boulders.

  "We'll have to scramble up a little higher to see the ice caves," Nate said. "I hope they've melted out this summer. Shall we find a nice flat rock and have our picnic first, though?"

  "Sounds good," Abigail agreed.

  The perfect candidate for a lunch table was just being vacated by a couple who smiled vaguely and shouldered day packs for the hike out. Somehow Abigail ended up in the middle on the sun-warmed slab of rock, Kate happily ensconced next to her and Nate uncomfortably close on the other side. His shoulder brushed hers as he watched her unwrap her daughter's peanut butter and jelly sandwich. A frisson of awareness shuddered through her at even the small contact. Something in the line of his mouth told her she wasn't alone in feeling it.

  "Turkey," she said in an unnaturally bright voice, handing over the next sandwich. "I hope that's all right."

  "Only if it's the right brand." His mouth relaxed into a grin that made her light-headed.

  "Picky, picky."

  "Normal," he mocked.

  There was nothing "normal" about him, not if it meant ordinary. She thought again that, despite growing up there, he didn't seem to fit in Pilchuck, a small town where the Dairy Princess was more important than the Homecoming Queen, and where 4-H and Future Farmers of America were popular with kids who intended to grow up and farm their fathers' acres. Of course, there were an increasing number of residents who commuted as far as Seattle, but they were seeking the rural peace that Pilchuck hadn't yet lost.

  Was peace what Nate sought, too? Had he remembered it from his childhood?

  While they ate grapes and homemade oatmeal-raisin cookies, she asked him, "Did you miss Pilchuck when you were away?"

  Since they had been idly discussing school, from memories of hated teachers to favorite subjects, Nate didn't look too startled by the question.

  "Not at first. Eighteen years old, I couldn't shake the dust of it off fast enough. But after my father died…." He shrugged. "You get to thinking back. It was easier to remember the good parts after a few years away."

  The good parts? Casually, she said, "You've never mentioned your mother."

  "My parents were divorced when I was a kid. Never saw her again."

  Aghast, Abigail turned to stare at him. He smiled crookedly when he saw her expression. "Never?" she repeated incredulously.

  "I couldn't blame her. Dad beat her when he'd had a little too much. Since he boozed every night, that was pretty often. She saw her chance and ran."

  Abigail touched his arm. "You don't even sound...." She groped for a word.

  "Hurt? Mad?" A flicker of emotion she couldn't quite read crossed his lean face, though his tone was matter-of-fact. "I was both. But that was years ago. I survived. And now I'm ready...." he raised his voice as he stood, str
etching, "to hit the snow field. What d'ye say, short stuff?"

  Kate giggled. "Yeah!"

  "How about you?" He raised a brow, looking down at Abigail.

  Shock still clutched at her. How could a mother walk away from a childlike Nate and never look back? How could a boy deserted like that grow up to be a man as strong as this? His father certainly wasn't responsible. Had he done it alone?

  In the face of her silence his smile faded, leaving his expression inscrutable. But his voice was still humorous. "Guess we're on our own, short stuff."

  On our own. But never the way he had been. "Let me...pack our trash," Abigail said. "I'll be along."

  His gaze didn't leave her face for a long moment, until at last he inclined his head. "Sure."

  Sandwich bags and juice cans stuffed in the pack, Abigail trailed the tall man and her small daughter up to the snow pack. Standing beside it felt like opening a freezer door. Chilly air poured off the ice, hitting the wall of July heat. Stepping gingerly, Abigail slipped and slithered to where Nate was holding Kate's hand as she ran a few steps and slid, giggling. The snow crunched underfoot.

  Nate flashed a grin at Abigail. "Shall we ski?"

  "Who's going to hold me up?" she retorted.

  "At your service, ma'am." He held his free hand out.

  The invitation was too tantalizing to ignore. She remembered the romantic, magical walk on the dock, how secure his hand had felt. Kate was giggling and chattering, but Abigail couldn't hear her. She lifted her hand, watching Nate's face as his closed around it. He smiled lightly, even self-mockingly, but his gray eyes were dark and grave. His fingers were as strong as she'd remembered, as gentle, as warm.

  She was totally unprepared when he tugged, and her feet slipped out from under her. Abigail tumbled against him, and he released her hand to wrap his arm around her waist. One corner of his mouth lifted in a grin so wicked, so sexy, her heart flipped over.

  His eyes didn't leave her face, his mouth wasn't more than inches away from hers, though he spoke to her four-year-old. In a low, husky voice, he said, "What d'ye think, Kate that rhymes? Does your mom need a lesson in snow travel?"