“Fool,” he ground out, though he kept the field glasses to his eyes.
Model slender, she stood in heels, her long coat billowing in the breeze. She shivered and tightened the belt as snow melted against her cheeks and turned to jewellike drops in her ebony hair.
“Great.” He forced the binoculars from his eyes. No doubt about it. From her getup it was obvious that she was going to the wedding. So much for hoping she had the brains or common decency to decline.
So, whether he liked it or not, he’d have to face her within the hour in front of a hundred guests. His stomach knotted at the thought of his father and how the old man would react to seeing Carlie Surrett, the woman who, in George Powell’s rather prejudiced estimation, had brought nothing but agony and disgrace to the family, the woman he blamed for the death of his first-born son.
There would be a scene and Nadine’s wedding would be ruined. “Damn,” Ben swore at the world in general. He knew what had to be done. It meant facing her alone. Dealing with the infamous Ms. Surrett would be best accomplished without a crowd of wedding guests peering over his shoulder and whispering behind his back.
It wasn’t that he wanted to see her alone, he half convinced himself; he had no choice.
Jaw set, he stalked back to his battle-scarred pickup and climbed inside. Throwing the rig into reverse, he told himself that he was just going to talk to her and set her straight on a few things before they squared off at the wedding.
He owed it to his father. He owed it to Kevin. And most importantly, he owed it to himself.
* * *
CRAZY. THAT’S WHAT SHE WAS. Certifiably nuts! Showing up at Nadine Powell Warne’s wedding to Hayden Monroe would be more than asking for trouble; she’d be begging for it!
Carlie shivered, rubbing her arms as she followed the snow-encrusted path that rimmed the rocky banks of the lake. Snowflakes caught in her lashes and her braid was loosening. She should just go to the wedding and get it over with or turn tail and run. Instead, she was out here, in the middle of nowhere, second-guessing herself.
This was all Rachelle’s fault. Her best friend had insisted that Carlie put the past to rest and accept Nadine’s olive branch to bridge the gap between the two families. But it wasn’t Nadine who worried Carlie. Nadine was happy, content with her life, ready to forgive and forget; that much was evident by the fact that she was marrying Hayden Monroe, a sworn enemy of the Powell family.
But Ben was a different matter. A different matter entirely. Carlie’s heart squeezed a little when she thought of him, but she closed her mind to such traitorous thoughts. She’d see him today, try and be pleasant and that would be the end of it.
An icy blast of wind ripped through the thick wool of her coat and she shivered. The sounds of muffled traffic on the road winding around the perimeter of the lake reached her ears, and for a second she thought she heard the sound of a truck’s engine much closer than it should have been, as if someone else had seen the open gates to the old church camp and pulled into the long-abandoned property. Silly. She was alone.
Her satin heels slid on the icy ground and she decided she should turn around, climb into her worn-out Jeep Cherokee and drive to Nadine’s wedding where she belonged.
Ha! What a joke! Where she belonged! That was the problem. She didn’t know where she belonged. It certainly wasn’t in the town of Gold Creek, California, where she’d been born and raised, and it didn’t take a genius to realize that she didn’t really belong at Nadine’s wedding where she’d have to see Ben again.
Her heart tripped a little and she bit down on her lip as she shoved aside a frozen cobweb dangling from a low-hanging pine branch. In her mind, she’d played the scene of meeting him again over and over again, silly fantasies of a love long dead. If it had ever existed at all.
A thorn caught on the sleeve of her coat as she walked along a curtain of cedar and spruce trees rimming the shore. She paused, extracting the barb.
On the day of Rachelle’s wedding the lake had been blue and serene, the mirrorlike surface reflecting the mountains that spired above the timberline. But this afternoon, with the winter wind ripping through the ridge of peaks to the north, the gray water was whipped to an angry froth, whitecaps rising and falling above murky depths. Tiny particles of ice had begun to form in the water that lapped along the rocky banks and the low-lying clouds were a thick mist, the same mist that was a part of the old Native American legend.
The sight of the chilly water brought back memories. Some happy, others painful, all tracing back to her youth. It had been on these very shores where Carlie had first been kissed, where she’d tasted her first sip of wine, where she’d given away her virginity... She’d been young, naive, believing that she could someday change the world, trusting in true love and never once thinking that tragedy, shame and scandal could touch her.
Fool! Drawing in a cold breath, she remembered running away from the small town of Gold Creek with its narrow minds and wagging tongues. The comfort and security of her home had crumbled, turned to hostility and pain, and all the joy she’d felt growing up in this small community had disappeared. So she’d left and put time and distance between herself and the pain, tried to forget that she’d ever heard of the Powell brothers.
She’d run as fast and far as possible, to the bright lights and dazzle of Manhattan—to the noise, the bustle, the glitter—always hoping that she would leave the heartache and humiliation of this small Californian town behind her. Unfortunately the past had always been nipping at her heels. Dogging her. In New York. In Paris. In Alaska. The dark shadow of Kevin’s death clung to her tena
ciously, never far away, never to be lost, always clutching at her subconscious.
An icy blast of wind cut like a knife, and she shivered. If she’d learned anything in the past ten years it was that she could depend upon no one but herself and that she’d damned well better hold her head high.
A twig snapped. Carlie spun, quickly searching the undergrowth. Probably just an animal, but she couldn’t stop the goose bumps from rising on her arms. She stared into the thickets of brush and trees, but saw no one. Skeletal berry vines clawed along the ground; oak trees, naked in winter, reached gnarled branches up to the steely sky; and overhead, a hawk circled in the falling snow, but no one appeared from the shadows of the trees.
Just your imagination, she told herself. Just because you’re back at Whitefire Lake and caught up in memories you should have buried a long time ago. She turned, intent on hurrying back to the open area of the campground where she’d parked the Jeep. Her gaze landed squarely on the one man she had hoped to avoid.
Ben Powell.
A very real ghost of the past appeared on the shores of the lake. It was fitting, she supposed, and ironic. She tried not to gasp and managed what she hoped would appear a confident smile.
Dressed in his crisp military uniform, Ben Powell wasn’t a man to fear, just as certainly as he wasn’t a man to love. But he was definitely as hard and cruelly handsome as the pictures she’d tried not to conjure up in her mind for a long, long time.
His sensual lips were compressed into a firm, uncompromising line, and his face, honed by years in the army, was angular and stern; not a single trace of his boyish features—the features she’d held dear in her heart—remained. Eyes, beneath flat dark brows, snapped with unrestrained hostility, and Carlie wondered how in the world she’d ever thought she’d been in love with him. Where was the kindness, the humor that had been such an integral part of the boy she’d once secretly hoped to marry?