North Country Man. Carrie Alexander

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СКАЧАТЬ she was worthy exactly as she was helped tame her butterflies.

      At a glance she knew that Bay House, rising before her on a grassy knoll, was not so grand, though it was a mansion. The bed-and-breakfast was plentiful in size, made of red sandstone in the Victorian style with several wings, steep peaked dormers and even a turret, its witch-capped roof thrust high against the diamond-laden sky.

      A pair of wrought-iron lampposts flanked the walkway, but they were not lighted. The only illumination provided for guests was the dull glow of a solitary fixture shining beside the front door. Saving on electricity?

      Claire drove once around the circular driveway, then parked in a paved area alongside several other cars and a well-used pickup truck. She got out, making a mental note of the charming carriage house set back among the trees that bordered the neighboring property. Wondering about the commercial zoning ordinance, she peered through the branches, studying the house next door. A purring black sports car arrived, headlights briefly illuminating the home’s immense white facade. A well-dressed but rumpled man in his mid-thirties lurched out of the car. Claire lifted a hand to wave—never too soon to be friendly with neighbors who might object about Bel Vista moving in—but he threw her a sour, slit-eyed glare and disappeared inside.

      “Okay for you,” she said, shrugging. She ducked inside the car to slip the keys from the ignition and reach for her purse.

      Her palm landed flat on the passenger seat.

      Where was her purse?

      “Oh, no,” she moaned under her breath, shooting from the car to check the back seat and trunk. A futile effort. She remembered dropping the purse when that Grizzly Adams character had emerged from the underbrush. Between the shock and distraction and her somersault with Scrap, she’d forgotten all about it.

      Good going. What now?

      She stared at Bay House, exasperated with herself. The building remained dark and quiet—no sign of a welcome. Well, then. She’d try checking in, and if they wouldn’t take her at her word and demanded identification, she’d have to backtrack in search of the purse. In the meantime, it wasn’t likely anyone would stumble across it on such a little-used road in a sparsely populated area.

      “Hoo.” Claire blew out a disgusted breath while hauling her baggage from the trunk. The prospect of facing the wilderness again was disheartening when all she wanted was civilization and its creature comforts.

      No other creatures need apply, she silently added, thinking of her rescuer and his bear cub. She had plenty of decisions to make without a big, male, Sasquatch-like creature complicating matters. Even one who had rock-hard muscles and a whimsical sense of humor.

      With a piece of luggage in each hand, her computer satchel slung over one shoulder and her carry-on over the other, Claire headed toward the house, automatically taking in its architectural details. Bay windows with leaded mullions, carved stone designs, copper gutters and drainpipes—all very impressive. The place was in dire need of upkeep, but the basic structure appeared sound. Heaven only knew what nasty surprises lurked within. She was experienced enough with reno budgets to know that hidden problems in an older building could double or triple the initial estimate.

      A wide front porch stretched from the tower past a bay window. The front door had a knocker and a doorbell, but she tried the blackened brass knob and found it open.

      The foyer was large, dim, stuffed with furniture. It looked more like a Victorian brothel than a hotel lobby, complete with swags and furbelows, fringed lamp shades, velvet settees and armchairs. Family pictures and dingy oil paintings crowded busy wallpaper. Claire blinked at the yellowed pattern. It was predominated by fairies and naked nymphs draped in gauze. Ugh.

      “Hello?” She set down her suitcase and advanced through a jungle of ferns and other assorted foliage. “Hello?” she called again.

      On her left, carved-wood double doors remained closed. On her right were glass doors that had been left open to a dining room. A wide, carpeted staircase loomed before her, but she continued past it to a row of closed doors in the narrowing hallway. She was about to knock on the one that bore a tarnished brass nameplate labeled Office when a long, wheezy snore came from the vicinity of the fern jungle.

      Claire retraced her steps. Closer inspection revealed a pair of pajama-clad legs extending out of the greenery, the splayed feet clad in hand-knitted red socks riddled with holes. Poking from the largest was a fat pink toe.

      Apparently this was Claire’s evening to roust men from bushes. She peeled away the crisscrossed straps of her bags and dropped them to the carpet with a jarring thud. No response from the sleeper except another snore.

      She inched closer. Lifted a palm frond for a better look. A tubby little man slumped in a chair, swaddled in a robe and a crocheted throw, his short, thick fingers clasped atop a chest that rose and fell with each congested breath. Choork, went the inhale with a fluttering of nostrils. Choo, came the whistling exhale, making his moist lower lip vibrate.

      Claire’s amusement showed in her tired smile. The man was elfin, with sticky-out ears, a round face and a funny button nose. Wispy white hair made a tonsure around his head.

      Choork…

      She cleared her throat. “Hello…sir? Could you please wake up?”

      Choo…

      “I’m dead tired,” she said.

      Choork…

      She tickled the knob of his nose with the frond.

      “Choo!” he said, eyes popping open. He sprang out of the chair.

      Claire leaped backward, her hands flying up in defense.

      “Wha—whu—who—” the little man said, cartwheeling his arms. The jungle rustled around him.

      Claire took another step back. “I’m, uh, Claire Levander. You’re expecting me? I have reservations?”

      “Umf.” The fellow grunted suspiciously, rocking back on his heels. “Howzat?” He rubbed a finger beneath his nose. Strands of hair floated around his head as he swayed forward onto the balls of his feet, blinking at Claire. The bare toe curled into the carpet. “Whozzat?”

      “Claire Levander,” she repeated, resisting the urge to steady the confused elf.

      His eyes brightened as he continued rocking to and fro. “Ar-har, Miss Lavender.”

      “Levander.” She pushed her bangs out of her eyes.

      “Righto. Here we are.” He’d rescued a registry book from its upside-down position on the carpet and was squinting at the crumpled pages. “You got a pen?”

      She patted her pockets. “No. You see, I’ve lost my purse. But I can—”

      The man slapped the book shut and dumped it on the chair. “Never mind that. I’ll take you straight oop-stairs.”

      “Oop?” she said, becoming as addled as her host.

      He looked her up and down, his small blue eyes twinkling. “You’ll want the bridal suite, eh?” His accent was thick—somewhere between Fargo and Canadian.

      “I’m not on a honeymoon.”

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