Bride for Ransom Read online

  “Good reasons!” she exclaimed. “I’d be glad to hear one good reason for living like a lazy pack rat!”

  She began to chafe beneath his scrutiny before he finally spoke. “You’re only going to be here a week. Don’t interfere. Touch a single plate, and you’ll sleep on the beach.”

  “At least it’s clean on the beach.”

  “And it’s near freezing at night,” he said flatly, clearly trying to control his temper. “I won’t warn you again. Leave my house and my things alone.”

  She glared at him, totally frustrated. “You’re nuts, you know!”

  “My mental condition is none of your business, and neither is the condition of my house. You and Lynn are unwelcome guests. Keep that in mind,” he cautioned, signaling an end to the discussion.

  She took a rebellious step forward, refusing to be bullied. “We’re also unwilling guests!”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  She’d never in her life met a man who was so hard to reason with. But she had to admit he had a point. This was his house. She supposed he could live like a pig if it pleased him. Feeling defeated, she sagged against the cluttered table. A tin can rolled off, clattering along the tile floor. Through clenched jaws, she uttered an unladylike word.

  “Such talk,” he rebuked from a distance.

  Her face grew hot. She’d had no idea that her voice would carry all the way into the living room. “I hope it makes you happy to know you can drive a person to using bad language,” she grumbled aloud.

  “Ecstatic.” The slamming of the door told her that he was gone.

  Sara forced herself to walk around the house to view the entire, throat-clutching mess. Without a doubt, she now knew this man’s great failing. He was a slob—a stubborn, shiftless, self-absorbed slob. Lynn and Tag had truly found themselves a paradise. Sara, on the other hand, had tumbled headlong into hell.

  SARA SPENT the afternoon avoiding Ransom Shepard like the plague. She’d glimpsed him on his return from his errands; he’d been driving a red Jeep filled with boxes. She’d found out from Tag that they were supplies left by the plane she’d flown in on, as well as gas for the generator and mail. The Jeep was Ransom’s. There was a garage out back, which she hadn’t noticed upon her arrival, that also housed the generator.

  It was nearly five o’clock now, and cloudy. A fog was rolling in from the sea, and Sara, out for a walk, hugged herself. Though she’d managed to scrounge a man’s down jacket from the hall closet, she still felt the damp chill. Glancing up toward the house, she grimaced. The last thing she wanted to do was go back to that cluttered place and spend time with that irritating man.

  “Hi.”

  She jumped, whirling to see the very same irritating man standing before her.

  “Everything okay?” he asked as though they were old friends and had never argued a day in their lives.

  Sara stared at him. What could be okay? She stuffed her hands into her coat pockets and shrugged dejectedly. “Are you sure there isn’t any other way off this island?” she asked, turning to gaze at the sea.

  “I’ve been working on it all afternoon. Unfortunately we’ve had another burnout at our earth station satellite.”

  She looked back at him doubtfully. “Does that mean the Martians are on the warpath?”

  He almost smiled. “Cute. But no. It means no phones until we can order the part. And we can’t order a part until old Krukoff gets here next Wednesday.”

  “Great,” she muttered.

  “Too bad the rescue boat’s out of the question.”

  That remark straightened her spine with anticipation. “What do you mean? Why, for heaven’s sake?” she demanded. “It could take us to St. Paul. That’s only forty miles away.”

  He shook his head, looking almost as if he understood her distress. “It’s a rescue boat. What would we do if someone needed it while it was ferrying you around? What if one of our fishing boats began to sink, and our fishermen were bobbing about in the sea, freezing?”

  “Oh. How often does that happen?”

  “Not often.”

  “Well?” She spread her arms in silent appeal. “If it doesn’t happen often, why can’t we take the chance?”

  “Sporting of you to offer, but it’s not your life you’d be betting on. Besides, it’s an old boat. Probably couldn’t make it the forty miles—especially in this fog.”

  She frowned, then had another thought. “What about one of the fishing boats? It doesn’t have to be right now. What if I offered to pay someone to take us to St. Paul in the morning?”

  He nodded, giving her hope. “To somebody from Kansas, that must sound dandy. But our boats Miss Eller, are twenty-six-foot, open inboard-outboards, with iffy VHF radios that don’t charge properly—not to mention no radar. Even seasoned fishermen wouldn’t take them that far, not even on a clear calm day. They’re just not fit to travel forty miles out to sea. Besides, you folks from Kansas with all those oil wells may not know this, but for a lot of us, gas is expensive. Still, I have to admit I’d pay the tab for renting a damned boat—if it was possible.”

  She bristled. “Kansans are aware of the price of gas, thanks. I don’t appreciate being patronized.”

  His lips twitched. “Forgive me,” he said, his tone amused and openly insincere.

  She eyed him critically. “For a man who takes in orphaned reindeer, you have a real mean streak.”

  “I know you’re not happy,” he said more seriously. “Don’t you think I would have gotten you off the island if there’d been a way?”

  She studied his grave face, then gave a disheartened nod.

  “We may as well have a truce.” He extended one hand.

  She blinked, surprised. With more reluctance than she’d expected to feel, she placed her fingers in his. She was startled to find his hand so warm. Feeling curiously as though she was doing something illicit, she withdrew her fingers, saying rather huskily, “I’m sorry about... you know—everything. It isn’t my business how you live your life.”

  He examined her closely. “You mean that, don’t you.”

  “Yes. I am sorry.” She sensed a softening in his attitude and decided to try for a compromise. “But couldn’t we maybe have one cleanup day? It’d make the place livable, and help the kids develop responsibility toward—”

  “This cleanup day worked for you and Lynn, did it?”

  Sara glanced away in embarrassment. “Not too well. I tried to get her to help, but you know how kids are.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” he assured her, his tone suddenly edged with steel. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d allow me to handle my own life in my own way.”

  “But you’re not—”

  “Living up to your idea of a good parent?”

  She considered his stony expression. “What’s the use? You already know what I think.”

  “So, we’re back to square one.”

  “I suppose.”

  When he said nothing more, she began to move away down the beach.

  After only a few steps, she heard him ask, “What if I told you I was using reverse psychology on the kids—making their lives so miserable they’ll be forced to take some responsibility.”

  She stopped and half turned. “Well, since they’re far from miserable, I’d say you were goading me again. I’d also say that if there was an Olympic event for sarcasm, you’d be a gold medalist.”

  He lifted a rueful eyebrow. “I can’t put anything over on you, can I?”

  Irritated by his teasing, she resumed her walk into the fog.

  “What’s with your hair, Miss Eller?” he called. “It wasn’t curly when you first got here. Does it just do that when it’s wet?”

  She swung back. “Why? Isn’t it messy enough for your taste?”

  He chuckled. “Actually, yes. It’s messy enough.”

  She heaved a sigh, irked that she’d stumbled right into that one. “You’re in a fine mood.”

  “Not really, but I do l
ike your hair that way.”

  He turned and strolled off, leaving Sara standing alone, annoyed and puzzled. She took hold of the end of a curl and pulled it straight down in front of her eyes. Letting go, the strand corkscrewed back against her forehead. He likes it this way? He was being sarcastic, she decided. He was never serious about anything. Didn’t care about anything. What a bum!

  She glared at Ransom’s back as he walked leisurely off, his hands in the pockets of his leather bomber jacket. He was a wholly eccentric man, a crazy man no woman in her right mind would have anything to do with.

  As she watched him disappear into the fog, she mumbled under her breath, “You’re nuts, Ransom Shepard.” Inwardly her little voice said, He may be nuts, but, unfortunately that doesn’t stop him from being heart-stoppingly attractive.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT WAS AFTER TEN, and the world outside was still bright with unrelenting daylight. Hours ago, Sara had cleared a spot on the couch and spent the evening thumbing through magazines. A sound caught her attention. She glanced up to see Ransom carrying a couple of kerosene lanterns, and she squinted in confusion.

  “Expecting a power outage?” she asked, having decided to honor the truce and be as pleasant a guest as possible, considering the miserable circumstances.

  He looked at her, his expression somehow amused. “Actually, yes. Every night at ten I turn off the generator to conserve fuel.” His eyes roamed over her as she sat in her cozy little nest, but he gave away nothing of his thoughts. “Usually we go to bed at ten. Even though the sun doesn’t set until twelve-thirty, it rises at four.”

  She lay her magazine in her lap, facing him. “I work a split shift in Kansas—the lunch crowd at a diner, then the dinner crowd in a club. I don’t get off till two in the morning. I may have a little trouble adjusting to bed at ten.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “We’re on Bering Standard Time. In Kansas it’s after one o’clock in the morning now.”

  Her brows dipped, but she couldn’t stifle a yawn. “I thought it was stress that was making me so tired.”

  His friendly grin was unexpected. “No, it’s fairly late, even for you.” Handing her one of the lamps, he said, “Keep this. If you need to get up during the night. Light it. It’s not dark for long, but with the curtains drawn, it’s very dark.”

  Taking it, she uncurled herself and stood, surveying the room. The driftwood fire was dying on the hearth, and Lynn and Tag were nowhere to be seen. “Where are the kids?” she said, almost to herself.

  “Probably over at Doc Stepetin’s place. He has a TV.”

  “Doesn’t Dr. Stepetin turn off his generator?’’

  “The rest of the island homes are on one generator. They keep it going all the time.”

  “When do the kids have to be back?”

  “Whenever they care to.”

  She felt the urge to debate the wisdom of that, but said nothing. He’d made his opinion clear on the subject of her butting in. Still, Lynn was her sister. She decided to remind him of that fact. “I realize you have rules here—which basically means no rules at all—but, I’d like you to let me establish some guidelines for my own flesh and blood, even if we are under your roof.”

  “She rebelled against your guidelines, if you recall. What do you want her to do—run away to the North Pole?”

  Sara hadn’t expected him to be so blunt, and she felt her eyes sting with moisture. Apparently she was more tired than she’d realized. She didn’t usually burst into tears because someone found fault with her. Waitresses had to take all kinds of verbal abuse from all kinds of rude and thoughtless people. Her anxiety over this whole mess must be getting to her.

  Maybe learning to take abuse from thoughtless customers with a smile was partly to blame for Sara’s current problems. Could it be that because she’d tried to ignore rude remarks, she’d allowed her sister to talk back too often, get away with too much? Maybe Sara should have been more strict with her. She’d obviously made a mess of trying to be a mother to Lynn. With that unhappy thought, Sara mumbled, “I don’t care to fight, Mr. Shepard. Call it fatigue, call it cowardice if it makes you feel superior. Right now, I simply want to go to bed.”

  He frowned, and Sara had the feeling his irritation was directed more at himself than at her. Without further comment, he motioned toward the doorway that was midway between the fireplace and the kitchen. It led to a hall. On the left was the master bedroom, where Ransom slept. Next was the bathroom. Then there were two more bedrooms. He indicated the room at the other end of the hallway. “This is Lynn’s room. Since we’re starting to pile up here, I’m afraid you two will have to share.”

  “No problem,” she murmured, grateful at least that she’d be a hallway’s length from him.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Better get some matches for the lantern. They’re in that stone urn on the mantel.”

  As she reached the mantel above the fireplace the electric light by the couch went out.

  Clutching the book of matches she’d retrieved, she was reentering the hallway when Ransom returned.

  “Do you have anything to sleep in?” he asked, surprising her.

  Not having much room in her overnight case, she’d only packed a light cotton nightie. Her plans hadn’t included a week’s stay on a remote subarctic island. She shook her head and, not wanting to discuss her nightclothes with this man, said, “I’ll make do.”

  “Even with our coal furnace, it gets cool at night. I’ll find you something.” He went into his room. After a minute, he was back with a man’s flannel shirt. It was hanging on a wooden hanger and looked fresh from the laundry.

  She inspected it, deciding the dim hallway light couldn’t be playing that big a trick on her. Not only was the shirt clean and pressed, but it was protected by a plastic bag. She’d never seen flannel look quite so pristine. Taking it from him, she teased, “I can see why you’d want to get rid of this stain on a life-style of grime and clutter.”

  His gaze grew inhospitable. “You’re welcome, Miss Eller.” With a curt nod, he turned away. “Sleep well.”

  “Uh, I’m sorry,” she called, feeling thoroughly put in her place. “I didn’t mean—”

  He was gone, secluded behind his closed door, before she could finish. Ashamed, she bit her lip, wondering what she might have said if he’d stopped and acted as though he cared.

  She stood there, staring at the shirt. Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten anything for dinner, not quite knowing what to do, considering the squalor of the place. Lynn and Tag had opened a can of salmon and one of baked beans, opting for another easy, if not nutritionally balanced, meal. Sara had felt a little sick to her stomach watching them, and she’d retreated to the living room to forcibly duck her nose into a news magazine.

  She’d heard pleasant chatter and laughter from the kitchen and was aware that Ransom had fixed himself a sandwich. She’d watched covertly as he’d gathered up his dishes. For a moment, she’d heard water running, and had a surge of hope that he was washing them. But quickly the sound stopped. Dejected, she’d settled back to try to read. She must have dozed off, because the next thing she knew, it was minutes ago and Ransom was towering above her holding the lanterns.

  A shuffling on the porch drew her attention. The front door clicked open, and Sara heard the familiar sound of Tag and Lynn’s laughing banter as they came in.

  Sara went to the entrance to the living room. When Lynn saw her, she asked, “Still up?”

  Keeping her tone as pleasant as possible, Sara said, “I’m going to bed. And you?”

  Lynn nodded. “Yeah.” Turning to Tag, she said, “See you in the morning.”

  He retrieved the other lantern and nodded. “Night.”

  Once cloistered in their bedroom, Sara perched on the edge of one of the twin beds. It was littered with dirty clothes, several odd shoes and a pile of magazines, but the bed was made. The other twin was a wreck. Clearly that was the one her sister had occupi
ed during the past week.

  Lynn plopped down next to Sara and whispered conspiratorially, “Couldn’t tell you this with Tag around, but I think Rance is a little crazy.”

  A shaft of unease knifed through Sara as she darted her sister a worried look. Granted, she, too, had accused him of being “nuts,” but she hadn’t been really serious. “Crazy?” She placed the lantern and matches on the bedside table, then lowered her voice. “What do you mean, crazy?”

  “Well,” Lynn whispered, acting as though she were about to reveal a huge indiscretion. “You should see his closet!”

  Sara cringed, visualizing whips and chains. “Oh, my...” She tugged nervously at her collar. “What does he have in there?”

  “It’s spotless,” Lynn confided. “I mean everything is neat and in order. Like.. .like it was a magazine article about clean closets or something.”

  Sara sat back, staring at her sister. “His closet is neat?”

  Lynn nodded, her eyes wide and expectant.

  “Neat?” Sara repeated, disbelief creeping into her tone. “You think he’s crazy because his closet is neat?”

  Lynn pouted, flopping back on the bed and propping herself on her elbows. “Well, he’s not very neat outside the closet. There’s something funny about a man who’s messy outside a closet, but neat inside a closet.”

  Sara peered at the flannel shirt that was lying on the pillow—the neat, plastic-covered flannel shirt. “I can see why you might think neatness is crazy,” she admonished with a wry grin, “but not everyone is alarmed by it.”

  “But only neat in a closet?” Lynn insisted.

  “It is unusual,” Sara admitted, wondering about this mild aberrance in Ransom Shepard’s behavior. “But I don’t think it’s anything to panic about. I’ve never heard of mad-dog killers having overly neat closets.” She eyed her sister levelly. “To be perfectly honest, Lynn, neatness isn’t generally considered a hideous crime.”

  Lynn gave her a disgusted smirk. “Okay, be that way. I just figured you ought to know.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” Hooking a finger in the crook of the hanger, she lifted the shirt. “He loaned me this to sleep in. Do you suppose the crazed, neat-closet freak, put poison in his steam iron and the venom will seep into my pores, causing me to die a horrible death before morning?”