Читать книгу Sharing Spaces - Nadia Nichols - Страница 8

THE ADMIRAL HAD KNOWN he was sick long before he was diagnosed with cancer. His energy levels had been dropping steadily, and the pain that he used to hold at bay with handfuls of aspirin began to cripple him up. He’d finally sought professional advice. Aside from announcing to Jack with blunt matter-of-fact realism, that the doctor had told him he wouldn’t live out the year, McCallum never spoke of his illness. The two of them carried on as if by ignoring the bad news, eventually it would go away. This was fine with Jack. He’d come to like the admiral very much in the eight years he’d known the man, so he’d just as soon avoid any discussions of the unfair and untimely fate that awaited his friend.

Jack knew the admiral came off as a cold-hearted bastard to the multitudes who had dealt with him in the military, but he had an advantage that most people didn’t. He knew the admiral was a dyed-in-the-wool fly fisherman who lived and breathed to cast his lines upon some of the greatest fishing waters in the world, so when Jack’s commanding officer had asked him eight years ago for some advice about where to take his father fishing, Jack never missed a beat.

“Labrador,” he said. “That’s one of few places left on this continent where fish are still the size God intended them to be, and the wilderness is still wild.”

His commanding officer wanted to know more, and Jack was happy to provide any and all information. When his CO asked if he’d like to come along as an informal guide, all expenses paid, Jack could scarcely believe his luck. “Yes, sir,” he’d said, immediately. “I’d be glad to.”

“My father’s an admiral,” his CO had warned.

“I know he is, sir. I’ll be on my best behavior,” Jack promised.

Jack’s CO was Stuart McCallum, Jr., son of Admiral Stuart McCallum, the Sea Wolf, who had long been known as the toughest, meanest admiral in the fleet. But if he was a genuine fly fisherman, Jack was sure he’d find some common ground with the crusty old man. He’d been prepared for the worst, but on that trip with the two McCallums he’d made a good friend of the old admiral. They’d fished annually in Labrador until his CO died in a plane crash and the admiral retired that same year. Two years later Jack had taken a midnight phone call on board a ship in the middle of the Persian Gulf.

“McCallum here,” the gruff voice said. “I’m in Labrador, looking at a piece of property, and I need your advice.”

It took him a while, the Navy being the way it was about unscheduled leave and all that, but the old sea wolf, though retired, still had some pull. Two weeks later Jack was standing on the shore of Grand Lake, a major jumping-off point to all of Labrador’s intriguing wilds, and the admiral was saying in his raspy voice, “I want to retire here, Hanson. I want to build a place right on this lake, and I want to build a fishing lodge in the interior that’s only accessible by float plane for people who care enough to make the effort. I’m looking for a business partner, if you’re interested. How long can you stay?”

Jack stayed as long as he dared, being as he was only a captain himself and not ready or willing to be court-martialed, but when he left, the admiral was already beginning construction of his retirement home. One year later, Jack’s marriage was over and he decided to end his naval career as well. True to his words, the admiral readily allowed the younger man to buy into his Labrador dream.

And what a dream it was. That the admiral could harbor ambitions that required such vision and herculean physical effort astounded Jack, who believed himself to be unique in that regard. But the admiral’s tireless strength had played out rapidly near the end of the project on the Wolf River. His doctor advised him to return to the States for further tests and chemotherapy treatments, but Admiral McCallum had no use for doctors or hospitals. “I’ll die in my own place, and in my own time,” he said. “I want to see our lodge on the Wolf River completed. I want to sit on the porch and sip my scotch and watch the river run past. I want to see the salmon come up it to spawn. I need to know that life goes on, no matter what.”

They’d both worked hard toward making that vision become a reality, though Jack shouldered the brunt of the work in the final year of the admiral’s life. As his health steadily failed, McCallum lost energy but he never lost sight of his dream. The last time Jack had flown the old man into the interior and landed on the river just below the lodge, McCallum had known he’d never live to see it up and running.

“Put my chair on the porch,” he said that evening, laboring for each precious breath. “I’ll sip my scotch and watch the sun go down.”

One week later, the admiral was dead. All of North West River gathered for the traditional Irish wake the old admiral had requested, though McCallum was only half Irish, the other half being pure bull-headed Scot. All of North West River attended the party, a grand send-off the old man would have enjoyed…all except the part where the wedding planner showed up, and Jack won their last bet.

It was one of the few times he and the admiral had spoken about what would come after.

“I’ve named my granddaughter executor of my estate,” McCallum had said. Jack was feeding the sled dogs, and the admiral walked out to the dog yard to smoke his pipe and watch. Retired from the team, Chilkat was his constant companion, but the admiral’s faded blue eyes softened as he looked upon the dogs. Clearly, he loved them all.

Jack straightened from ladling soupy dog food into a bowl. “The wedding planner?” he said. “Why not one of your grandsons?”

“They’re city boys. They wouldn’t want anything to do with a place like this. Senna’s the only one who might feel something for it.”

Senna McCallum was the only person the admiral regularly spoke of in his family, though he also had two grandsons living somewhere on the East coast and a spinster sister out in Oregon. He’d told Jack about Senna right at the outset on that first fishing trip. “She’s a good girl. Spirited, but lacks guidance. Makes all the wrong choices. She’ll end up the way most girls do, paying homage to a man that’s not good enough for her, raising a bunch of spoiled brats that want and get everything for nothing. Too bad, because she’s sharp. She could go places, if she’d just take some good advice, but she doesn’t think much of her old grandfather. Never listened to a thing I said.”

Since then, he’d made brief but frequent references to Senna, which Jack had strung together into this general assessment: She makes her living planning other people’s weddings. Got her degree in wildlife biology, wrote a brilliant paper on the Yellowstone wolf pack and landed a good job with the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife, but couldn’t hack the politics. Couldn’t compromise what she knew to be right with what would keep her employed. She’s too brash, doesn’t know when to pull her horns in. Was let go for stirring up all kinds of controversy and bucking the big hunting lobby over the snaring of coyotes and the baiting of bears with stale doughnuts. Spunky. She made the front page of the paper at a big legislative hearing in Augusta. Shortly after that she was conveniently laid off. Her mother’s sister owns a country inn on the Maine coast, and her aunt gave her a job there, so now she’s nothing but a wedding planner.

A wedding planner was someone who dealt with weepy, emotional brides, bossy overbearing mothers and grooms who didn’t realize what the hell they were getting into. Queasy. Jack couldn’t imagine a more insipid career, and knew from listening to the admiral talk that he wouldn’t like his granddaughter at all. He hoped she never showed up in Labrador.

“She doesn’t give a hoot about me,” the admiral alleged not a week before his death, puffing on his pipe with a contemplative gaze, “and that’s not her fault. I was never a very warm and friendly grandfather. I didn’t know how to be. And after her father died I didn’t visit them anymore. Senna’s mother never liked me much, nor did the boys. It was easier to stay away. I doubt Senna will come to Labrador when I die. But I’ve made it all nice and legal. Did it yesterday, in Goose Bay, with Granville. Just so you know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wish you’d quit calling me that, son,” the admiral said in a quiet voice, gazing out at the dogs.

“Yes, sir.”

“She won’t come.”

Jack stood, holding the five-gallon pail and the dog-food scoop. “She’ll come.”

The old man shook his head. “Not in a million years.”

“Bet you a thousand bucks she shows up.”

McCallum’s eyes flickered momentarily with that old fighting man’s gleam. “You’re on, but you’ll lose,” he said, extending his hand to seal the pact. “Give my winnings to Goody Stewart. She needs the money more than you do, and she’s a damn fine woman.”

“You should’ve married her,” Jack said.

The admiral turned away with a shake of his head, shoulders bowed beneath the weight of the years and the pain that had beaten him in the end. “I’ve never been able to make any woman happy. Goody deserves to be happy.”

But Goody wasn’t going to get the admiral’s money, not that there was any to give, because Jack was at this very moment looking into a pair of angry eyes—gray, pale blue?—that belonged to the admiral’s granddaughter.

He struggled up onto his elbows, trying to focus his eyes. Not easy, after the past few days. Damn hard, in fact. Better just to go back to sleep. Sleep it off. Sleep off everything, but she was right in his face, pointing her finger, waving a frying pan, and threatening to bring in the Mounties. Sergeant Preston and all that. He squinted and blinked. She was wearing a dark conservative skirt suit that showed off a pair of the shapeliest legs he’d seen in a dog’s age.

He rubbed a hand over his face and wished she’d shut up before his head exploded. There was nothing like a good old-fashioned Irish wake to bring out the best and the worst in a bottle of booze.

She should be planning her own wedding. That’s what the admiral had told him about his granddaughter. “She deserves to be barefoot and in the kitchen if planning weddings is all she aspires to.” The admiral had set very high standards, and woe to the granddaughter who lowered the bar, intentionally or not.

“Or not,” Jack muttered, interrupting Senna McCallum’s diatribe about how she was here to settle the admiral’s estate and had no intentions of playing cook and housekeeper to a hungover heathen who couldn’t even sit up in bed. He was pleased that his words had startled her into momentary silence, giving him another chance to eye those slender, feminine legs.

“Or not what?” she said, spine stiffening, frying pan lowering a bit. Her hair was gorgeous, the rich gloss of mahogany framing an equally beautiful and expressive face that just now was scowling on the stern side, but he bet that when she smiled her radiance would shame the sun. And damn, those legs of hers would rival any high-paid model’s…

“You didn’t deliberately get yourself discharged from your wildlife job just to spite the admiral. It was purely accidental,” Jack said. “I’m sure of it.”

“What are you talking about?” She recoiled as if he were rabid.

“Your grandfather told me all about you, but he never mentioned how good you looked in a skirt.”

If anything, her demeanor became more hostile and her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Then you really are John Hanson.”

“I prefer Jack,” he said. He extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

She declined to shake his hand, taking yet another step back instead. “We need to talk,” she said.

Jack needed aspirin, strong coffee and a lot more sleep, but since obviously none of these mercies were forthcoming, he sat up, very slowly, and attempted once again to focus his eyes on the young woman standing in his bedroom. “We threw a wake for your grandfather yesterday…or was it the day before? I’ve lost track. Damned sorry you had to see the place in such a mess, but it was a good old-fashioned Irish wake, just like the admiral wanted, and I’m not sorry about that. He deserved a good send-off.”

In spite of the effort this explanation had cost him, there wasn’t an ounce of sympathy or understanding in her expression. “That explains all the trash. I’m here to settle his estate and I had hoped to be able to discuss this with you as soon as possible, but I can see that’s not going to be any time soon.” She paused to glance down at the dog. “Is your dog about to attack me?”

Jack glanced at Chilkat, who was still eyeing her intently. “Like I told you before, he just wants to clean the grease out of the frying pan you’re holding. That’s his job and he takes it very seriously. And for your information, that dog belongs to you now, Ms. McCallum. His name is Chilkat, and he was your grandfather’s lap dog. A real cuddler. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the pack when you’re ready, but there are some things you need to understand. The admiral and I were full business partners, the lake house was part of the business, and you’re standing in my bedroom.”

The admiral’s granddaughter looked confused. “Do you mean to say that the two of you shared this house? You lived here together?”

“Even Steven.”

“Then…who lives in that other cabin?”

Hopeless. He’d known it would be. Who could understand the bond between himself and that irascible stiff-backed admiral who had scoffed at Jack’s plan to build a separate cabin for his own use, and then, when the cabin was complete, had suggested using it for a workshop. Who would understand that gruff old admiral was a lonely soul who liked sharing the lake house? Certainly not this young woman with the mahogany hair and the beautiful face which unfortunately seemed to be marred by a permanent and disapproving scowl.

“Nobody,” Jack said. “We use it for a workshop.”

She digested this as cheerfully as she had everything else. “And just how am I supposed to sell my grandfather’s half of this property while you’re living here and the place looks like a pigsty?”

Jack’s headache was getting worse with every beat of his heart, as was the day in general, or what was left of it. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed with a silent groan. “That sounds like a personal problem to me. Tell you what. If you’re that hard up for a quick buck, I’ll pay you a dollar if you make a pot of coffee for me,” he said. She was still brandishing the frying pan as though she’d like to whale him with it, and her nervous movements were making him dizzy and more than a little nauseous.

“This is not a joking matter,” she said.

“I’m not joking. I’ll pay you up front if you don’t believe me.” And then, as she began to erupt, he raised his hand. “Look, lady, like it or not, I own half of this house, half of the smaller cabin, half of a very mangy pack of sled dogs, half of the plane, half of the fishing lodge, and one half of each of those rusted-out trucks. Get used to it.” He gave her as challenging a stare as he could, given the circumstances. “The admiral and I were full business partners. I sank everything I had into it, and have no regrets except two. Your grandfather up and died on me, and he left his half of the business to you.”

Jack stood cautiously, holding onto the headboard. The room remained still. Good. If he could just get some fresh air, he’d be able to keep his stomach down. He reached for a clean undershirt. Rummaged in the bureau for a clean pair of socks, donned his favorite flannel shirt, and pulled on his boots. All the while she stood in the doorway, holding that big, greasy frying pan and watching him with the wary expression of a prison guard getting ready to move a dangerous prisoner into a maximum security cell.

“I’m sensing a streak of voyeurism in you, Ms. McCallum,” he observed as he picked his wallet off the bureau and removed a dollar. He held the coin out to her enticingly, but she clearly had no intentions of playing along. He sighed, stuffed it into his pocket, and looked around for Chilkat. “C’mon, dog,” he said. “She isn’t about to let you lick the pan.” Chilkat stood. “Chilkat can stay with me, at least for tonight. That’ll give you some time to settle in and take a reality check, but don’t think I’m hauling anchor permanently. I’ll be back tomorrow.” He glanced around, wincing. “Hope you’ll have the place cleaned up by then. Feel free to start with my room.”

“Where are you going?” Still frowning, still suspicious.

“I have a sweet-natured friend in Goose Bay. She’s always glad to see me, and she makes a great pot of coffee. I’ll save myself a buck and get a smile for a change.”

She had to turn sideways to let him out of the room, and he heard her footsteps following him down the stairs and out onto the porch. At the bottom of the porch steps he glanced back. She was watching him with that same wary stare and still gripping that damn frying pan. “Oh, and by the way,” he said. “The sled dogs’ll need to be fed pretty soon. We feed them twice a day, meat stew or frozen fish in the morning and a soupy kibble mix at night. Water morning and night. The feed’s kept in the small cabin out back, along with everything else you’ll need. There’s a list of the dogs’ names pinned to the door, and their names are on their dog houses, too. Follow the path behind the cabin. The dog yard’s just beyond the treeline, no more than a hundred yards from here. If you get lost, just listen. They howl like a pack of wolves.” He gave her legs one final appreciative stare. “I suggest you change your clothes before tackling that job.”

He turned and started for his truck, Chilkat trotting at his heels.

“Wait!” he heard her cry out as he reached for the door handle. Jack paused then turned. “You can’t leave without showing me how to take care of the dogs.” She was looking and sounding a tad distraught.

“Right now, I need a gallon of strong coffee and a sympathetic friend. The dogs probably won’t bite you as long as you put the frying pan down before you go into the dog yard. They don’t like being threatened any more than I do.”

The color in her cheeks deepened as she looked at the skillet, then back at him. “I’m sorry, but when I first arrived, I didn’t know who you were.” She waved her free hand about her head to drive off the mosquitoes. “I’ll make you a pot of coffee, Mr. Hanson, if you’ll just show me how to feed the dogs before you go. Please.”

Jack stood for a moment, considering her offer. “I dunno,” he said, rubbing his jaw. He thought for a few seconds just to make her suffer a bit more. “I’ll stay, but only if you promise to serve that joe with a pretty smile.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hanson. I’ll put the pot on.” She spun on her heel, still wearing that disapproving scowl and carrying the greasy frying pan. The screen door banged shut behind her.

He shook his head and glanced down at Chilkat, who never did get to lick the pan and so understood completely when he said, “No sense of humor.”

“THIS IS BANE,” Hanson said, speaking over the collective howls of twenty impressive-looking huskies less than thirty minutes later, having consumed an entire eight-cup pot of black coffee and looking marginally improved. “He’s an Inuit husky, like the others, only he’s considerably smarter than the rest. He was your grandfather’s lead dog. The admiral ran him up front with Belle, the dog next to him. Just remember, you can’t run Bane next to another male. He’ll kill him.”

“I believe it,” Senna said, keeping her distance from the thick-coated, yellow-eyed and very muscular sled dog. “And I have no intention of running any of them.” All of the huskies were behaving as if they would cheerfully tear each other apart if their stout chains didn’t keep them from doing so. “Are they always this aggressive?”

“Only when they’re awake. Here, I’ll show you how to scoop the food, and in what order the dogs should be fed,” he said, taking the heavy five-gallon bucket out of her hand. He held a one-quart ladle in the other, and he made a rapid circuit of the dog yard, emptying two buckets before he was done and making frequent asides as he bent over each food dish. “This is Tiny. A real hard worker for her size and a sweetheart, too, aren’t you, girl?” The small slender husky’s ears flattened back at his voice, her eyes gleaming with pleasure. “And this is the mighty Quinn. My lead dog. The best of the best, better than Bane, and he knows it, too. Look at him. He thinks the world’s his dog bone.”

Senna laughed in spite of herself as Jack filled Quinn’s dish and the sled dog dove in. “They sure like to eat.”

“These dogs likes to eat almost as much as they likes to fight,” he said with a touch of Granville’s rough Celtic brogue. He grinned at her for the first time and Senna felt an immediate whole-body response. “So. Think you can feed them by yourself tomorrow morning?” he asked as she struggled with an erratic heartbeat.

Senna shook her head, feeling the heat rush to her face. “No. I mean, tomorrow’s different. Mornings, the dogs get meat, right? I haven’t seen that yet. You’ll have to show me at least once, so I can get the hang of it.”

He picked up the empty buckets. “Okay. My friendly friend in Goose Bay awaits, but I’ll plan on being back here by 7:00 a.m.”

Senna followed him through the gate. The dog yard was completely enclosed by a seven-foot-tall wire fence to keep the dogs safe from the wolves, or so Jack had informed her. She closed and latched the gate behind her and had to practically trot to keep pace as he strode back down the path toward the lake and the house. “Look, it’s getting late,” she blurted, swatting at clouds of mosquitoes as they emerged into the open and lake water sparkled through the black spruce. “I’ll fix you another pot of coffee, if you like. We have lots to discuss. Business-related things. You could tell me something about my grandfather’s life here, all the things he did, and give me an idea of all the affairs I’ll need to straighten out before I leave. Maybe you should just stay….”

He acted as if she hadn’t spoken, kicking open the cabin door and setting the buckets on the floor by a deep laundry sink. The cabin brimmed with all the paraphernalia of an arctic expedition. Several dogsleds were suspended from the purlins, except for one which was on a work bench apparently having some maintenance done. Snowshoes, pack baskets, fly rods, two large canvas canoes, sacks of dry dog food, two big chest freezers, countless five-gallon buckets, shelves filled with tools and paint cans… Senna gazed about her in awe as Jack washed his hands at the laundry sink, wondering at this secret life of her grandfather’s.

“I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot. Maybe we should start over,” Senna began again as he reached for a towel. “I’m a very good cook….”

He leaned his rump against the sink as he dried his hands. That grin of his kick-started her heart again. “Is that so?” he said, his gaze holding hers a little too closely for comfort.

“I’ll fix supper for you,” she said, suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm. “You’ll feel much better with some food in your stomach.”

His grin broadened. He turned and hung the towel back up then went to one of the chest freezers and lifted the lid. “How are you with wild beasts?”

She moved to stand beside him and peer into the dim recesses. Half of the freezer seemed to be allocated to blocks of dog meat, the other to packages wrapped in freezer paper. She picked one up. “What kind of wild beasts?”

“The smaller packages are caribou. The larger are moose. Your choice. The cuts are written on the package.”

“I’ve never had caribou.”

“Have you ever tried moose?”

“I’m from Maine, Mr. Hanson. Of course I have.”

“If you liked moose, you’ll like caribou even better. And please don’t call me Mr. Hanson. Jack works just fine for me.”

Senna lowered her eyes. “How many packages?”

“Two if by caribou, one if by moose.”

Senna chose two of the caribou steaks. “Caribou it is, then, and whatever else might be in the kitchen.”

“No promises. Your grandfather was particular about his fare, but he didn’t eat much in his final weeks, and I haven’t paid much attention to the larder since he died. My guess is that the wake cleaned the cupboards out.” He gave her a quizzical look. “What day is it, anyway?”

“Tuesday,” Senna said, and then, wondering, asked, “What day did you have the wake?”

“It began Saturday afternoon, right after the service,” Jack said.

“Did many people attend?” Senna asked, curious as to what kind of friendships her grandfather had made in this faraway place.

“The church was packed. There were some hymns and singing, and the preacher said all the necessary words. Then John Snow Boy spoke. Too bad no one could understand what he was saying because I’m sure it was better than the preacher’s spiel.”

“Was he drunk, too?”

Jack uttered a short laugh. “John Snow Boy doesn’t drink, but he speaks English, Inuit and Innu fluently. Trouble is, he mixes them all up into his own language. We call it Innisht. Very colorful but way beyond interpretation. Afterward, there was a pot latch, that’s traditional in this neck of the woods, and then we all came here for the wake. Goody made sure all the kids were herded back home by midnight, and to tell the truth, I don’t remember much after that.”

Senna held the two icy packages of caribou and followed Jack as he left the cabin and headed toward the lake house. “Mr. Granville mentioned he had a sister named Goody.”

“Goody Stewart. Kindest soul that ever walked this earth. She lost her husband eight years ago, and then fell in love with your grandfather. Would’ve married him, if he’d only asked.” Jack never slowed as he spoke, just strode along in that big way of his that Senna was beginning to learn.

“Why didn’t he?” she asked, struggling to keep up as he climbed the porch stairs and opened the door.

“He said she deserved to be happy,” Jack replied, giving her the briefest of glances as he passed through the doorway and headed for the kitchen. He gave the room a quick three-sixty and shook his head. “By God, if Goody ever saw the place like this, she’d skin me alive. Those steaks should thaw quick enough if we put them in cold water. Meanwhile, I’ll take you out to the lake where we can begin discussing our new partnership.”

He held out his hand for the packages of caribou, sealed them up tightly in a plastic bag, then placed them in a large kettle of water on the countertop. Chilkat watched all of this with his intense wolfish expression but remained plastered to Jack’s side.

“There’s no partnership to discuss,” Senna said. “I’m selling my grandfather’s half of the business, and I have two weeks to get everything in order.”

“Two weeks,” Jack said. “That’s not much time, considering what you have to see and do. You’ll change your mind about selling the business when you see it. Bug juice.” He handed her a can of mosquito repellent as he headed for the door. “Be liberal with it.”

“What exactly is there to see?” Senna hurried after him, aware that her heart rate was way above normal. Undoubtedly she was stressed about this executor stuff, but she guessed that Jack Hanson’s insufferable arrogance might have a little bit to do with it, as well.

“You’ve met the dogs,” Jack narrated over his shoulder as he strode toward the dock, “you’ve seen the gear, the supplies, the houses. I’ll show you the plane, and maybe tomorrow, first thing, I’ll fly you out to the river to see the lodge. It’s accessible only by float plane or boat.” He was stepping onto the weather-bleached boards of the dock, and she was right on his heels.

“You’re a licensed pilot?”

“I’m legal, and I have the paperwork to prove it.”

“How far away are these places you want to show me?”

“Far enough so’s you’ll know you’re away from it all.” His eyes glinted with something akin to daring as he came to a halt and gestured to the plane tethered to the end of the dock. “The plane’s good to go, if you are.”

Senna teetered beside him as the dock rocked beneath her feet. She stared dubiously at the aircraft. “It looks ancient.”

“She’s a sweet old girl, a four-passenger Cessna 195. They don’t build ’em like this anymore,” he said, giving the bright-yellow wing that overhung the dock an affectionate slap, as if it were a favorite work horse.

“What year is it?”

“Nineteen fifty, sporting a Pratt and Whitney 985. Beautiful motor.”

“Dear God, that’s older than ancient. And my grandfather owns half of it?”

“The half that never breaks down,” he said with a grin. “So. What do you think of the view? This lake’s four miles across and forty miles long.”

Senna looked across the lake to the far shore. “It’s a big lake,” she said, thinking that this land was lonely and isolated and more than a little forbidding, yet compelling in a way that made her want to see much more of it. “A big land. Are there any towns out there?”

Jack squinted across the distance and nodded. “Standing on this dock we’re looking almost due north. About a thousand miles in that direction there’s a village called Kangiqsualuiuaq, on Ungava Bay. Across the Hudson Strait is Baffin Island, and there a few native settlements on that, as well.”

“You mean to say that the nearest town to our north is a thousand miles from here?”

“Could be a little closer as the crow flies,” Jack admitted. He grinned again at her expression. “Most folks up here follow the waterways, and they seldom run in a straight line. Ever read about the Hubbard expedition?”

Senna shook her head.

“Three men started out on this very same lake, trying to reach the George River and head north to Ungava Bay. Two of them made it back, but Hubbard starved to death.”

Senna gazed out across the vast wilderness. “Let me get this straight. We’re standing here on the edge of nowhere, but that wasn’t wild enough for my grandfather. He had to build a lodge even farther out?”

“For fishing,” Jack said, as if that were a reasonable explanation.

Senna gestured impatiently at the lake. “Are you saying there’s no fish here?”

“Oh, there’s damn good fishing here, but Goose Bay’s just a hop, skip and a jump away, and where there are towns, there are people. On a busy day you might see four or five boats from this very dock, and float planes droning around carrying sports from away. You know.”

Senna shook her head, bewildered. The lake was vast. Four or five hundred boats could have fished all day and never caught sight of each other. “I don’t get it. Was my grandfather a recluse?”

Jack rubbed a jaw that was dark with stubble. “Maybe,” he shrugged. “Hell, maybe we both were, maybe that’s why we got along so well. But first and foremost, he was a fisherman.”

“I never thought of him as anything but an admiral,” Senna confessed. “I can’t even picture him in casual clothing with a fishing pole in his hand.” She paused. “So, the lodge was a place my grandfather built so he could be completely isolated from other fishermen?”

“No. We built the lodge to run as a sporting camp for people who wanted a genuine wilderness fishing experience.”

Senna shook her head, increasingly baffled. “My grandfather wanted to run a sporting camp?”

“What’s so strange about that?”

“I happen to work in the hospitality industry,” Senna explained, “and I know that to be successful you have to make people feel warm and welcome. The admiral just didn’t have the ability to be warm and welcoming. In fact I found him to be quite scary and intimidating.”

Jack was studying her with eyes that sparkled with humor. “You might be surprised at how sociable he could be. Gruffly sociable, that is.”

“We weren’t very close,” Senna admitted as she shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. “We didn’t get along that well. In fact, I hadn’t seen him since my father’s funeral. No one in the family even knew where he went after my father’s death. He just disappeared. Never wrote, never answered any letters, never showed up for another Christmas.”

“That’s too bad. You missed out. Both of you did.” Jack turned on his heel and started back toward the house.

“Look, we need to talk about splitting up the business,” Senna said, hurrying after him. “Who’s going to want to buy half of an old plane?”

“That ‘old plane’ happens to be a valuable classic,” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, someone’ll pay a good chunk of change for her.”

“Maybe, but nobody would want to buy just half of a plane, no matter how valuable a classic it is.” Senna hurried after him. “Look, why don’t you buy out my grandfather’s half of the business? It makes perfect sense. You helped to build it. A bank would probably loan you the money, and…”

Jack stopped so abruptly she nearly ran into him. He rounded on her and a broad sweep of his arm took in the entire surrounds. “Lady, I love this place and I’d mortgage my soul to buy out the admiral’s share, but no bank would look twice at me.” He paused for a moment, his gaze keen, the breeze off the lake tousling his dark hair. “Why don’t you just keep your grandfather’s half of this business? Why are you so damn anxious to sell something he worked so hard to create?”

Senna felt the heat in her face. “I already have a career, Mr. Hanson, and it doesn’t involve Labrador.”

“No, it involves planning other people’s weddings. I got that part. But this place’ll grow on you, I guarantee it, and the fishing lodge will generate enough income to make you happy even if you’re an absentee business partner living and working in Maine.” He towered over her, his eyes intense. “We’re only two weeks away from opening. I have most of the help lined up, I just need to find another fishing guide or two. At least think about keeping your grandfather’s half. But know this,” he added. “If you decide to sell out, I’m not going to make it easy for you. I’ve worked my ass off to help make this place what it is. This is my future we’re talking about, not to mention your grandfather’s lifelong dream.”

Before Senna could respond, he wheeled and strode away, leaving her standing on the dock and staring after him. He walked the way a mountain lion would, with smoothly controlled grace and power…and a strong hint of sinuous swagger. Her heartbeat was erratic and she was having trouble catching her breath. Her inner voice warned, Watch out. He’s dangerous. Wild and unpredictable, just like that mountain lion. Dangerous he might be, and overbearing and conceited, but had a man ever looked so damned sexy in a pair of faded Levi’s and a flannel shirt?

Senna’s life, up until this very day, had been fairly steady, safe and predictable, but suddenly she found herself smack dab in the middle of a whole bunch of unknowns—and in spite of the dubious circumstances, she found herself looking forward to exploring them, even if it was just for two weeks.