LITMIR.BIZ

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crew? You knew what the old man’s reaction would be.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I mean exactly that. Have you thought for one moment that maybe Yvette’s participation in the trail clearing was the reason the old man went after you?”

      “She had his permission. How could I know that he’d changed his mind? Besides, I had no choice with the crummy crew you gave me. At least Yvette was someone I could count on to do her share of the work.”

      “Knock it off. John-Joe’s one of the best workers I’ve got.”

      “Yeah, maybe for you. But he sure acted like deadfall for me. And Chantal was another one, who—”

      “Don’t Chantal me,” he shot back. “Leaving such a defenseless young woman completely alone in this wilderness was one of the stupidest things you’ve ever done.” Eric had a facial scar that would glow white when he was angry. A whiteness was now seeping into its edges.

      “Made it back, didn’t she? By herself?” I said, barely able to keep the sarcasm from my voice. “Didn’t happen to pick up some stray male along the way?” I pointed my eyes straight at him.

      Eric’s scar turned whiter. “Enough. If Pierre hadn’t found the girl, you would’ve had another casualty on your hands. I’m disappointed in you, Meg. I never would’ve expected you to be capable of such irresponsibility.”

      “Yeah, well, if that’s how you want to look at it, fine. I’m leaving. Just give me a call when you’ve got my money.”

      “Now, calm down.”

      I turned on my heels.

      “Don’t take it—”

      And slammed the door on his words. But before I’d walked two paces, I collided with a female with the kind of sculpted looks I used to pray for as a teenager. Instead, a thousand freckles disguised any cheekbones I might have, and my skijump nose automatically eliminated me from the qualifier “classic beauty”.

      “Could you please tell me where Eric Odjik’s office is?” she asked in a husky voice. She brushed a lock of black silk away from a pair of shimmering onyx eyes.

      I assessed her tall, despicably “willowy” figure through the fringe of my eyelashes and debated telling her his office was down the hall, to the right and out the back door. But I didn’t. I wasn’t that mean. Not yet.

      I watched Eric’s office door fling open and his face light up as he pronounced words that sent my stomach into free fall. “Teht’aa! How wonderful.”

      I didn’t wait to see what followed. I fled through the lounge to the outside door, past the bar where John-Joe was usually to be seen hanging out. Today someone else was working in his place. No doubt he was recuperating from Chantal.

      I slammed that door too.

      Men. I’d had it up to here with men. They were all clones of my ex, testosterone-driven jerks. Eric could have his fling with this…this Indian Princess, whomever. What did I care?

      I sloshed through the snow to my truck, rammed it into gear, skidded down the Fishing Camp road to the main road and headed back home. By the time I’d reached my turn-off, I’d convinced myself there was no point in getting angry.

      Eric was just a friend, after all. I might even go so far as to call him a special friend. But obviously he didn’t feel the same way. And why should he? I was an overweight, fortysomething divorcée whose hair needed help in retaining its brilliant red colour. Not exactly a catch, was I?

      My truck churned through the wet snow covering the twisting two kilometre road to my cottage. At one particularly sharp curve, it almost slid into the ditch, but the wheels managed to catch on to solid ground and jerk the dilapidated pickup back into the centre of the narrow lane.

      I spied my cottage’s Victorian turret through the curtain of snow, then the rest of the squared timber and fieldstone building hove into view. Built by my great-grandfather in the late 1890s, its fanciful architecture more properly belonged in Charlevoix or a similar turn-of-the-century playground for the wealthy. Instead, Great-grandpa Joe had built the six-bedroom cottage in the middle of nowhere, with Ottawa the closest city at a hundred and fifty kilometres away and the Migiskan Reserve the only neighbour. And although several farms, including Papa Gagnon’s, had appeared in the intervening years, along with another cottage or two, the property was still isolated, for much of the surrounding land remained undeveloped crown land.

      The building stood on the tip of a high granite point that jutted like a fat finger into the deep waters of Echo Lake. At some time in its distant past, the property had been christened Three Deer Point, intended to commemorate one of Greatgrandpa Joe’s successful hunts. In the living room hung a picture of this hunt, with the eviscerated carcasses of three stags hanging from the eaves of the large wraparound Victorian verandah. The same sprawling verandah whose fretwork and whimsical roofline I’d fallen in love with on my first summer visit as a child.

      Although I’d inherited the extensive property over ten years ago from my Great-aunt Agatha, Great-grandpa Joe’s unfortunate daughter, I hadn’t moved in until my life in Toronto had taken a turn for the worse. Now that I could look at my former marriage without blinkers, I should probably say a turn for the better. But three years ago, after I’d finally convinced myself my marriage to Gareth really was over, I could only think of fleeing everything that reminded me of my ineptness and his betrayal.

      Unfortunately, where love was blind, hope lingered. It had taken Gareth’s last deceit, two years ago, to erase any remaining vestige of love and make me see the real man behind the handsome face I’d lived with for fifteen years.

      My truck slid to a stop. Sergei greeted me joyfully from inside the house as I bounded up the stairs to the verandah. Like Aunt Aggie, I used this expansive porch with its spectacular view of Echo Lake as my living room when the weather was civilized. Unfortunately, winter’s pending arrival had forced me to move its wicker furniture, along with Aunt Aggie’s bentwood rocker, into the ground floor of the turret where the five-windowed sides provided almost as good a view.

      The dog barely stopped long enough for his usual greeting pat on the head before racing towards the woods for a longoverdue release of his bladder. I went inside to check for phone messages. Although Yvette’s condition had been deemed to be satisfactory when I’d left the hospital a couple of hours ago, I was worried about a setback. In addition to a broken arm and a concussion, she had cracked a couple of ribs, which in turn had punctured a lung and might possibly have damaged other organs. Thankfully her leg wasn’t broken too, just badly bruised.

      I’d remained by her side while she waited long, painful hours in emergency for the doctor’s examination, the X -rays, the cast, the re-inflation of her lung and finally her transfer to a considerably more comfortable hospital bed. Fortunately, I hadn’t had to contend with her father. Although I had tried to call him several times during the night, I’d failed to reach him at home. I found this surprising, since he didn’t fit the profile of a man with friends or a business that would keep him out all night. But Yvette, now awake, seemed to take it in stride. However, as her initial stoic acceptance gradually changed to tearful glances at the sound of approaching footsteps, I realized that no matter how unsavoury I found him, she wanted her father by her side. By the time I’d left at around six thirty that morning, she still hadn’t been able talk to him.

      The minute I stepped into the brighter light of the windowed turret, I noticed the message light flashing from the phone on my desk. With a sense of foreboding, I pressed the playback button and heard a brusque, official-sounding voice asking me to call the Somerset hospital immediately.

      I tried several times to phone back but got either a busy signal or voice mail. Afraid of wasting more time, I pushed all thoughts of sleep aside, put the dog back in the house and returned to my truck. I spent the entire thirty-five-kilometre journey into Somerset imagining the worst. By the time I reached the outskirts of this once bustling logging town, I’d convinced myself that she’d had a major relapse.

      I

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