White Wedding. Jean Barrett

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      Chapter One

      Lane knew that the setting was something she was supposed to be enjoying, not fearing. It had all the elements of a perfect Christmas card: a dazzling blue sky on a late-December afternoon. Snowy, wooded bluffs hugging the shores of Wisconsin’s Door Peninsula. And tucked between those bluffs the village of Ephraim, as charming as any traditional New England village.

      But Lane was unable to appreciate the appealing scene as she stood at the foot of the dock gazing out over the vast, frozen expanse of Green Bay. The prospect of crossing all that ice in an open sleigh was making her increasingly anxious.

      The five other members of the holiday party gathered with her at the dock apparently didn’t share her concern. They were busy exchanging a lively dialogue as they waited for the arrival of the sleighs. But then, she thought, they weren’t struggling with her painful memory.

      You don’t have a choice, Lane reminded herself sternly. This whole weekend is necessary, and that means enduring the ice.

      Among the company was an individual who threatened the happiness of someone she loved. She had promised that, if it was possible, she would find a way this weekend to ease the critical situation. The promise worried her, however. After all, this was not her prime reason for being here.

      “There,” said an affable male voice close behind her. “Can you make it out?”

      An arm extended over Lane’s shoulder. Its hand, wearing a distinctive silver-and-onyx ring, pointed helpfully toward a smudge far out on the horizon.

      “Thunder Island,” he said.

      He had misunderstood her preoccupation with the view, regarding it as anticipation for their destination. He didn’t know about her fear of the ice. She wanted to keep it that way.

      Lane turned her head, summoning a smile for the man at her elbow. He had a kind but unremarkable face, except for a pair of alert gray eyes and a quiet humor that seemed to perpetually hover around the corners of his mouth. Judge Dan Whitney was the bride’s cousin.

      “Looks pretty far out,” Lane observed, hoping her casualness masked her worry.

      “About six miles,” he indicated. “Wouldn’t you say, Allison?”

      The bride, to whom Thunder Island belonged, joined them. The presence of Allison Whitney, a striking, elegant blonde, reminded Lane of her main purpose for being here. She was to be her friend’s attendant at tomorrow’s ceremony.

      “At least,” Allison agreed. “But don’t let all that remoteness fool you, Lane. The lodge has every modern comfort, including a phone.”

      Lane considered Allison and decided she wasn’t mistaken. There was a definite quality of overbrightness in her quicksilver smile. Of course, every bride was entitled to a degree of nervousness on the eve of her wedding, but this seemed to be something more. She could swear, too, that Allison had been sneaking anxious glances at her ever since their arrival at the dock.

      Something was up, but Lane had no chance to question it. Allison captured their attention by declaring enthusiastically, “Oh, look, my caterer!”

      A young couple had emerged from a rambling old inn directly across the highway and was headed toward them.

      “Dick and Nancy Arnold,” Allison explained as the couple approached the dock. “He opened the place last summer. Cooks like a dream. We’ll eat royally this weekend.”

      She performed quick introductions all around as the Arnolds reached the group.

      Nancy Arnold greeted them and said, “Just came to extend our best wishes to the bride and groom.”

      “And,” Dick added, “to assure you, Allison, that all of the meals you ordered were picked up by your help this morning before they drove out to the island.”

      “The wedding cake is to die for,” Nancy promised, obviously proud of her husband’s accomplishment. “Dick outdid himself.”

      “Don’t oversell me, sweetheart,” he cautioned, grinning as he slid an arm around his wife.

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