Snowbound. Janice Johnson Kay

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      Definitely worse, she decided.

      Folding towels in the same style he did, lengthwise in thirds, she couldn’t help thinking about what he’d said. He needed to decompress, which must mean he was having trouble with… She didn’t know. People, noise, nightmares? Of course, there was his limp, too. She’d seen how much his leg hurt him on occasion. He’d go utterly still, his jaw muscles locking, and a sheen of sweat would break out on his face. Was he continuing to do physical therapy, or had he recovered as much as he was going to?

      “Gee, why don’t I just ask him?” she said aloud, rolling her eyes.

      His voice came from behind her, mild but impossible to ignore. “Ask him what?”

      Fiona froze. Her fingers tightened on the towel in her hands and she said the first thing that came to her. “Oh, um, whether you have more laundry soap.”

      “Why? Are we running low?” He came closer to her and peered into the tall plastic bucket. Which was half full.

      Even more flustered by his nearness and the woodsy scent that clung to him, she babbled, “No, no, I’m just afraid we’ll use it up. I thought maybe we should start hanging the towels after baths instead of washing them incessantly.”

      “We have plenty of soap.” He nodded past her, where half a dozen plastic buckets were stacked against the wall.

      “Oh.” She gave a weak laugh. “I’m practically tripping over them. Well, now I feel dumb.”

      “Don’t.”

      Her laugh became slightly more genuine, if a touch hysterical. There he went again. Anybody else would have said, It’s okay, you were being considerate. Or, Anybody could have missed seeing them. But if John Fallon could compress twenty words into one, he did.

      She grabbed almost at random for something to say. “You must get sick of laundry during your busy season.”

      He reached for a towel from the basket and folded with quick efficiency compared to her more deliberate efforts. He was reaching for another by the time she was half done with one, even though his hands looked too large to be so deft.

      “If you’re here for long, we’ll put the kids to work on laundry, too.”

      Her embarrassment was fading, thank goodness. She chuckled. “The beauty of unpaid guests.”

      “Maybe I should lower my rates in exchange for labor.”

      “You could make the whole stay do-it-yourself,” Fiona suggested. “Kitchen privileges, bathroom privileges, but leave ’em clean.”

      “You can’t imagine how appealing that is.” His tone was heartfelt, less guarded than usual.

      “Oh, I don’t know. After a few days of cleaning up after them—” she nodded toward the kitchen “—I’m sure I’ll be in complete sympathy.”

      “They’re done in the kitchen.”

      A non sequitur? Or not?

      She braced herself. “Is it clean?”

      “I’ve seen worse.”

      “But you’ve seen better.”

      He shrugged. “They’re kids.”

      She should have continued supervising. “I’ll finish up.”

      “I already did.”

      She winced. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

      He raised his brows. “Do what?”

      She forgot she held a towel in her hands. “Work nonstop. I feel guilty.”

      “You’ve worked nonstop today, too,” he pointed out.

      “But they’re my job. My responsibility.”

      “And the lodge is mine.” While folding the last towel, he made it sound inarguable.

      As, she supposed, it was. He couldn’t want a crowd of teenagers trashing Thunder Mountain Lodge, even though he seemed less than enthusiastic as an innkeeper.

      “What are they up to now?” she asked.

      “I offered some games. Most of them are in front of the fireplace playing them. I think a few are upstairs.”

      Not one boy and one girl, she hoped.

      “Amy?”

      “Last I looked, sulking because someone else already took Boardwalk.”

      “Oh, dear.”

      He frowned. “Quit worrying about them.”

      “But they’re…”

      “Your responsibility. I know. But they’re not toddlers.”

      “No, they’re teenagers, which is almost worse.”

      Why did he look irritated? Was he tired of her fussing?

      He picked up the piled towels before she could. “I’ll put these away.”

      “I can…”

      He ignored her, of course. Frustrated, she watched him limp out of the laundry room, leaving her to the sound of running water in the washer and the spinning dryer. Why did the wretched man have to be so hard to read? And why couldn’t he be, oh, fifty years old, balding and potbellied? Or the wizened old man Dieter had said used to own the lodge?

      Fiona sighed and went to see what the kids were up to.

      She found them sprawled in chairs and on the floor around a couple of different gameboards. Dieter, Hopper, Tabitha and Amy played Monopoly, Kelli and Troy Chinese checkers. Erin was curled like a cat in an upholstered chair reading. Only Willow was missing.

      “Anybody seen Willow?”

      They hardly glanced up.

      “Nope.”

      “Not in a while.”

      “Uh-uh.”

      Fiona hesitated, hating to look as if she was following John, but finally started up the stairs. He was just closing the door to the linen closet when she reached the top.

      “Missing a kid,” she said. “Seen one?”

      He shook his head. “Let me know if you need help.”

      Fiona glanced in the first bedroom on the girls’ side—beds still unmade, she saw—then knocked on the door to Erin and Willow’s room. “Willow, you in there?”

      “Yes.” The voice sounded small.

      “I’d СКАЧАТЬ