LITMIR.BIZ

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have to try to find him a good home. I don’t suppose Mrs. McTavish would take him?”

      Jason shook his head. “She said she’s a cat person.”

      Fiona scratched the puppy behind the ears. A small pink tongue emerged and began lapping at the base of her thumb. “Surely we know someone who would enjoy having this little rascal—” She broke off as a thought struck her, which she immediately dismissed. “Nah, forget it.”

      “Who?”

      “Do you remember that war correspondent who reported the latest conflict in the Middle East— Marc Wilde?”

      “He grew up in Whistler. Mrs. McTavish told me last week she’d heard he’d been injured and flown home. I mentioned it at the time but you were working on an essay and weren’t listening. What about him?”

      “He came into the pub today. He had a spinal-cord injury that left him in a wheelchair.”

      Jason let out a low whistle and sat back. “I didn’t know that. Do you think he’d like a puppy?”

      “He’d snarl at the mere suggestion, but I think it would be good for him.” Whether he would be good for the dog was another question but Fiona had a hunch Marc wasn’t quite as cynical as he made out.

      Fiona put the dog in Jason’s lap then thumbed through the local phone book for the number of the Wilde residence. Chances were better than even Marc would be staying with his aunt and uncle. If he wasn’t, they would know where he was.

      She dialed and as the phone began to ring she realized she had another motive for calling—to make sure Marc hadn’t done anything to harm himself.

      The phone picked up. A woman answered and Fiona said, “Hello— Mrs. Wilde? I’m Fiona Gordon. May I talk to Marc if he’s available?”

      A moment later, Marc’s distinctive, deep voice made raspy by alcohol spoke into her ear. A sudden attack of nerves set her to pacing the floor. “This is Fiona. From the pub. Can I come and see you tonight?”

      “I thought you were busy.”

      Shoot! The essay that was due tomorrow. “I— I am. I meant just for a few minutes.”

      “I don’t know. I’ve got a hell of a headache—”

      “The thing is, I need to ask you a favor.”

      “What is it?”

      He would undoubtedly say no to giving a home to a stray dog over the phone but if he saw the puppy, surely his heart would melt just as hers had. “I have to ask you in person.”

      There was a long silence. At last, he said, “All right. When?”

      She needed time for a quick bite to eat and to bathe the dog. “I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      “FIONA’S COMING OVER,” Marc announced as he hung up the phone.

      A favor, she’d said. What could he possibly do for her?

      Leone smoothed back a curving lock of chin-length auburn hair and glanced up from her book. “Is she a friend of yours? You’ve never mentioned her.”

      Marc wheeled into the space created for his wheelchair between Leone’s new ivory-colored sectional sofa and Jim’s worn Naugahyde recliner, angled for a good view of the TV. The yellow cedar of the log home made a dramatic backdrop to the stone fireplace and Jim’s collection of Haida masks.

      “She’s a barmaid at the Pemberton Hotel.” He was curious to know if she would seem as captivating when he was sober as she had when he was drunk.

      Jim and Leone exchanged glances, a fact not lost on Marc. “Was there any trouble?” Jim asked.

      “No.” Embarrassed at the memory of his drunken behavior he spun away, moving his hands too roughly against the wheels. He winced as the hard rubber chafed the broken blisters on his fingers and palms. He’d racked up a lot of miles in the weeks since he’d been getting around in the chair and had yet to develop protective calluses.

      Leone saw his grimace and hurried across the room to turn over his hand. “Let me put some dressings on those blisters. You don’t want to get them infected. Goodness knows what muck you go rolling through in those pubs.”

      “I’m all right,” Marc said irritably and pulled his hand away. “I’ll put some Band-Aids on later.”

      “Now, Marc, I’m a qualified nurse—”

      “Don’t fuss over him.” Jim rattled his newspaper open. His dark hair sprinkled with silver could just be seen over the sports section.

      Leone withdrew, smoothing down her cardigan and slacks in lieu of her ruffled feelings. “I was only trying to help.”

      “I’m fine. Thanks anyway,” Marc told her in a milder tone. Leone and Jim had taken him in at the age of five after his mother died and his father resumed his pursuit of glory on the pro-skiing circuit. Marc was grateful and loved them dearly; it just rankled that after ten years on his own he was living at home, dependent on them.

      He picked up the local newspaper and skimmed through the articles. More controversy over parking in Whistler Village, municipal elections coming up, the rising cost of real estate…. Ho hum.

      The doorbell rang. Before he could react, Leone went to answer it.

      Marc ran a hand through his hair, still slightly damp from the shower. After he’d sobered up, he’d cleaned up, but he knew he looked far from his best. Giving himself a push he rolled across the polished hardwood to the tiled floor of the entrance hall.

      “Come in,” his aunt invited Fiona with her customary warmth. “I’m Leone. We spoke on the phone.”

      “Pleased to meet you,” Fiona replied, stepping inside. “I apologize for dropping in on you on such short notice.”

      “Marc’s friends are always welcome,” Leone assured her. “Especially now that he’s limited in his mobility, it’s nice for him to have people over.”

      Gritting his teeth over his aunt’s effusiveness, Marc nodded to Fiona. She had on the same skirt and blouse she’d worn to work, her hair hadn’t been combed for some time and her lipstick had long worn off. But there was a sparkle in her eyes, which suggested that whatever had changed her priorities for tonight held some degree of excitement. Over her shoulder, tucked tightly under her arm, she carried a large woven straw bag.

      Jim put down his newspaper and rose, his large callused hand extended in greeting. In his early fifties, he kept trim and fit through physical labor. “I’m Jim, Marc’s uncle. Can I get you a drink?”

      “Thank you, no.” She glanced around the living room then said to Marc, “Maybe we should go into the kitchen to talk.”

      “They want to be alone,” Leone murmured to Jim, nudging him back to his recliner.

      Cringing inwardly Marc led Fiona down the hall to the kitchen/family room. It was his favorite part of the house, informal and comfortable, with colorful rugs scattered over polished floorboards and dried grasses arranged in large earthenware pots.

      “Sorry about my aunt,” he said when they were out of earshot of the living room. “She means well but she tends to fuss.”

      “Your aunt is lovely. Please don’t apologize for her.” Fiona’s straw bag moved suddenly and a bulge appeared in the side. She gripped the bag more tightly.

      Marc gestured to one of several cushioned wicker chairs grouped around a glass coffee table. “Sit down.”

      “I really can’t stay long,” Fiona replied, not complying. Her bag had gone still.

      Marc rubbed the back of his neck, sore from looking up at people all day. “Please. Sit. Down.”

      His

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