Christmas Paradise Read online

  Blackbeard took an uneven breath as she cowered against the couch, holding her fist to her mouth. A whole minute passed as the silence in the cabin surrounded them. Then he leaned forward, his arms reaching out on either side of her, pinning her to the floor. He peered deeply into her wet eyes.

  “I deserved that, I suppose. Now, miss, can we try and take care of each other's wounds before we kill one another?"

  Tarralee dropped her eyes to his bandage and saw the fresh blood on his tanned chest. Swallowing, she closed her eyes; realizing suddenly she, too, had been shot made her stomach turn over. Slowly, she nodded her head.

  The man touched the zipper at her throat. She remained still, and he dragged it down then carefully pushed up her layered shirts. Cold air on her bare skin made her shiver. She couldn't bring herself to open her eyes. She held her body rigid as his fingers pressed against the flesh of her side, lifting her longjohn top to expose her full braless breasts.

  “Thank God!” he sighed in relief as he looked at the abrasion and pinhole on her side. “The bullet appears to have only slid up your side and disappeared into the soft tissue near your right breast. We were both lucky."

  Tarralee opened her eyes and felt a sense of wonder at the obvious relief in his voice.

  “Stay still,” he ordered, although his voice was no longer as strong. “I'll get that washed, and then I'll bandage it.” Everything was in slow motion now, and she watched as he moved to pick up the first-aid supplies.

  Biting her lip, she frowned as she peeked at the damage to her chest and side. The flesh was split in an ugly arch from her belly to her right breast. She touched the pale skin beside the raw edge and flinched. It was real, but for some reason she couldn't recall the sound of the shot that had hit her. She had been oblivious to the pain, totally in denial of the injury. She would have remained that way—but he had known. Crazy, she thought as her mind slowly spun from surprise and shock.

  He returned and quickly tended to the bloody crease by using an antiseptic wash, carefully sponging up the excess. Then he taped her bandage closed. As he finished, he sank back against the sofa, his long legs spread before him as he sat on the floor. Tarralee noticed that his bandage was now soaked through, and bright red blood was mixing with the dark hair on his chest.

  “Thank you,” she muttered nervously as she slowly sat up.

  He ran his fingers along the side of his jaw where the red mark of her hand still lingered.

  “I've got to go out and finish taking care of my animals. The storm is getting worse and they depend on me. I'll be back as soon as I can, then I'll take care of you. Just stay still and put your shirt over the wound."

  She stood slowly, buttoning her wool shirt. He didn't stop her this time; instead, he nodded without opening his eyes. Taking a fresh jacket from a peg behind the door, she stepped onto the porch.

  Tarralee shivered as she mentally measured the amount of snow that had fallen since their confrontation. She guessed more than six inches were now piled against the doorstep and the wheels of his vehicle; by midnight it would be close to twelve. Where they had fallen in the snow was barely a dent now. Where she had dragged him was only a shallow trough that was quickly being filled in.

  Rounder greeted her enthusiastically as she walked to the yard, and Cedar limped to her side. Distractedly, she patted the dogs. Cedar would be okay, but she wasn't as sure about herself and the stranger. Who was he? Why was he here?

  Weakly she shut the barn door and locked the shed. The dogs whined as she put them into their runs. It might take her several days to get the stranger and herself into town and to a hospital and herself back. Only a doctor could stitch up the wounds.

  The sight of the continually falling snow sent a chill through her. The storm was blinding now, flakes falling so fast she could barely see the cabin as she turned toward it. The switchbacks leading down the mountain would only be half their problem. Most of the roads would already be impassable. The forty miles to town would be forty miles of hazards. There was no way to go for help or to call. She hadn't had a phone installed this winter, and the forest service radio wouldn't be operating because of the storm. The safest thing to do would be to wait it out. When it was over, then they could try for town with the sled. Until then it would be foolhardy to attempt it. But what would the stranger think? Who was this Blackbeard, anyway?

  Tarralee paused at the door and peered into the shadows. Darkness came fast here. By morning the snow would be several feet deep, a very common reality in the high Cascades of the Pacific Northwest; but at least it would be daylight. She closed her eyes, and the image of Blackbeard's face was before her again. She had to find out who he was, and why he was here. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door to an empty room.

  For a moment she felt slightly disoriented. Surely, she hadn't been dreaming. The first-aid kit lay closed on the kitchen table. She felt her side and knew that her wound was real. Then where was he? She turned and looked back at the couch. She walked farther into the lighted living room looking for the man, but there was no evidence of him. She was just about to call out when she heard the sound of water running in the downstairs bathroom. Closing her eyes, she felt a wave of relief. He was still here.

  She wasn't sure why she felt so relieved. He was still a stranger and he had attacked her and her dogs. He was not to be trusted, wounded or not. She still hated him, although now with less open aggression than before.

  Suddenly, she recalled the strength of his arms as he lifted her and dumped her onto the couch. He may have suffered a bullet wound to his shoulder, but he was definitely not a weakling, nor a man to be taken lightly.

  An unknown tension filled Tarralee's body as she thought of his faded eyes as he had exposed her torso to the cold air. He had been surprised and definitely intrigued as he glimpsed her bare breasts. To relieve her embarrassment, she moved to her gas stove and turned on the burner and filled her teapot with water. She decided a cup of tea might help her nerves. She needed something.

  She didn't hear Blackbeard enter the kitchen. When she turned back from the cupboard, he was standing directly behind her. She gasped, almost dropping the tin of tea to the floor. He reacted instantly, his hand catching and steadying the tin. He smiled at her. His handsome smile only made Tarralee more nervous and acutely aware of herself and him.

  “I ... thought hot tea might ... it's herbal ... if you want coffee, there is instant—or brandy in the icebox,” She murmured, feeling awkward and shy.

  “In the icebox?” He lifted an eyebrow as a twinkle entered his faded eyes. “Odd place to keep your stash."

  Tarralee felt heat come into her face. She didn't have to explain anything to this man. If anyone should be explaining, it should be him.

  “Look,” he said, seeming to read the glow in her eyes, “I know I'm imposing on you, miss, but I was looking for Mr. Terry Lee Roessel, the animal trainer. I heard he trains dogs, horses, even goats and chickens for people. I've got to find him. I must have taken a wrong turn in the snowstorm."

  Tarralee stared at him, then forced a laugh. “I can understand why you're looking for Tarralee. Your approach with animals leaves something to be desired."

  The man's eyes became slits at the sarcasm in her voice.

  “Look, miss, I know I made a mistake, but I thought those dogs were attacking you. I did the only thing I knew how to do, given the circumstances. I think—"

  “You think?” She laughed again, almost hysterically. “You don't have the brains God gave a flea, mister. No one uses a twenty-two on a wolf-dog, especially when there are nine others ready to rip your throat out.” She turned back to the stove, lifting the boiling teakettle from the burner.

  “I said I made a mistake. Look, miss, I'll take off now, if you'll just tell me where I can find Mr. Roessel."

  Tarralee slowly filled her cup with hot water and placed a chamomile tea bag in it before she walked to the table and sat. “Don't you think it might be advisable to see a
doctor first?"

  She felt lightheaded, and she wondered if it was anger or tension or pain that caused it. She assumed it might be all three. Blackbeard braced his back against the cabinet as he eyed her narrowly. He shrugged slightly, and she saw his lips flinch at the movement.

  “Do you need a doctor?” he asked.

  “Most people do after being shot,” she said evenly.

  He walked to the table and sat across from her. His shoulder was drooping, and she knew every time he moved he must feel pain, just as she did. He was silent while she took a calculated sip of tea.

  “Does your dog need a vet?"

  Tarralee was surprised he would ask. Although she wished she could make him feel guilty by telling him “yes,” she couldn't lie.

  “No. It was a flesh wound—luckily. Painful, but it will heal quickly. Cedar is still a pup."

  Blackbeard nodded. “Look, my name is Tyrone Shields, and you're...?"

  Tyrone Shields. That name meant something to Tarralee but she was blank for a moment before she remembered. He was a director/producer from Hollywood who made history with his controversial films. His reputation for breaking hearts all over the world was renowned, as was his cinematic record for excellence and creativity. He had been in the cinema appreciation class at Berkeley with her brother David ten years before. The two men had become fast friends in the college drama club, she recalled. Tarralee remembered David's rave reviews of Tyrone's work. But she suspected her brother's reaction was due in part to Tyrone's, having used one of his plays for a production they had done on campus.

  Tyrone had gone on to gain a reputation as a writer in college as well, and as a man who usually got his way, and did exactly what he chose. What on earth was he doing here on her mountain, looking for her?

  “Your business?” she asked.

  “Is no concern of yours,” he replied coolly. “Now, will you tell me where Terry is or not?"

  Tarralee lifted her eyes and smiled slowly at him.

  “Can't you guess?"

  Tyrone's eyes widened and his pupils dilated as he reached the obvious conclusion. “You!” He stated. His well-shaped mouth was wide open.

  “Me.” Tarralee nodded, meeting his gaze levelly as she took another calculated sip of her tea.

  He was taken aback. He leaned toward her, then away, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. “How they must have laughed.” A robust laugh suddenly filled the house as he continued to look at her. “I played right into their hands. This is wonderful."

  Tarry didn't see the situation as humorous at all. Her eyes narrowed as he sobered.

  “Just what is your business, Mr. Shields?” she asked.

  His eyes danced for a moment; then he reached across and picked up her teacup and took a deep sip from it. He made a face and put it down in front of her. “Don't you use any sugar?"

  The man was infuriating, she thought. “If you want tea, the water is hot. The sugar is in the cupboard next to the honey."

  Standing, he took a mug from the shelf. He poured warm liquid over her used tea bag and then stirred sugar into it, a lot of sugar, she noted. When he returned, he put both elbows on the table and looked straight at her.

  “You can't blame me for being a bit shocked. You look like a child or an adolescent boy in your oversized parka, you know. Didn't you get my letters? I've written three times over the past eight months concerning my current projects and requirements. Your brother David, who by the way never told me you were a girl, said you received them, but that you hadn't made up your mind. That's why I'm here, to help you decide. Of course, I thought I was going to talk to a ... man."

  He dropped his eyes to look at her stained shirt, seeing the sudden flush of embarrassment in her cheeks as he remembered what he had seen as he took care of her injury. “How they must have laughed at me,” he repeated softly before taking a drink of his tea.

  Tarralee recalled Tyrone's letters when he mentioned them. He wanted to hire her wolves and her to help do a film he was making. But she hadn't taken the offer seriously. She couldn't imagine leaving her mountain or the other animals to go running off to LA to do a documentary on wolves. She wasn't about to do it and had told David and Dwayne as much over a month ago, forgetting about it instantly.

  “Look, Terry...” Tyrone read the stubborn lift of her chin and said, “You don't mind if I call you Terry, do you? After what's happened today, I can't be formal with you. I know we got off to a rocky start, but this film is important. I need you, and your expertise. No one else has your knowledge of wolf-crossbreeds. It will be a first-class piece of work, I promise."

  His overwhelming confidence and casual manner annoyed Tarralee. Here was a man who had shot her prize pup, wounded himself and her, and all he could think of was his film. He was as crazy as—

  She stopped. As crazy as she was. Hadn't she rushed straight to Cedar after being shot? It was just a normal reaction, instinct. The things you care most about are the priorities in a crisis. But that really didn't matter. The man expected to get his way, and she wasn't about to give into him. This man had hurt her and the ones she loved. There was no way she could ever work with him.

  She stood up. Her head felt lighter, but she ignored it. “I'm not interested, Mr. Shields. I hope you find what you're looking for somewhere else. Drive carefully going down the mountain. Good day."

  She was at the stairs before he caught her, wrapping his hand around her upper arm. His jaw tightened in frustration.

  “Miss Roessel, what is it you want? I'm willing to negotiate."

  She looked at his hand on her arm then back into his eyes. “But I'm not, Mr. Shields. As a matter of fact, I think you should be more concerned about whether I want to sue you than whether my wolves will be the performers in your next project."

  Tyrone dropped his hand. “Sue?” He was obviously startled.

  “Yes, sue. You arrived uninvited today, tried to kill one, or all, of my dogs and instead shot me. I know my wound isn't that bad, but a good lawyer—"

  “Now, hold on, lady,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I thought those dogs were attacking you. They looked lethal, and it didn't appear you could control them. I fired the first shot into the air to distract them, and the second and third because you attacked me.” His eyes turned a dark stormy blue as he stared at her. “You can't sue me because you haven't got a case, and you know it. For heaven sakes, Terry ... you don't want to go to court any more than I do. Join me in this project, and I'll sign over half the profits to you."

  Tarralee's eyes flamed, taking on the iridescent glow that only she was known for. Was that all this man could think of, his project and the profits to be made? Did he think she was that shallow, or hard up? Blood thundered in her ears as she fought down the anger that stole her reason.

  “Mr. Shields, I'm not interested. If you know what is good for you, you'll leave. Now!"

  Tyrone was genuinely puzzled by her manner. He had never met a woman like her. She was so tiny, and yet when she spoke there was such command in her voice and her presence it made him feel small. He stepped back, his eyes dropping to the bloodstained shirt, the thin waist and slender hips, her small booted feet. He looked at her short, chopped brown hair, the stubborn angle of her chin, and her glowing eyes. He turned, picking up his jacket from the chair where he had discarded it earlier.

  “I really am sorry about your dog, Miss Roessel, and about...” He motioned at her side. His hand rested on the door handle. “I never meant to hurt you or the pup. I...” He looked back at her. She was hanging onto the stair rail now, her knuckles white; and he saw for the first time the paleness of her face and the pain around her mouth. “Are you sure I shouldn't take you into the hospital? You're right, we should see a doctor; and your wound was much deeper than mine."

  Tarralee suddenly remembered the storm blowing outside the house. She looked at the window and saw the white fury that would blind anyone who ventured into it. She had lived her whole life on this
mountain, and she knew better than to send anyone off in a storm like the one that was battering the mountain now. How could she have forgotten?

  “It's too dangerous.” She spoke in a distracted way, nodding at the window. “You can stay until the storm is over, Mr. Shields. There are plenty of rooms you can use. But I don't want to hear about your project. I'm going upstairs to clean up and rest."

  She turned, meaning to leave him, as a dark wall seemed to block her exit. She felt her legs buckle and she grabbed at the rail, but it was too late. Reaction and stress worked their wills on her as she sank to her knees.

  Chapter Two

  Instantly, Tyrone was beside her, helping her to her feet. The weakness that invaded her limbs kept her from moving as she fought the blackness before her eyes.

  “If you feel as rotten as I do...” He spoke conversationally as he guided her upstairs, his arm around her shoulders. “...you should lie down and rest for a while.” His words were logical, but because he said them Tarry felt rebellion fill her. The last thing she wanted was to do anything this man suggested.

  Taking a deep breath, she jerked her arm away from him. “Thank you, but no thanks, Mr. Shields,” she said as she gripped the railing. “When and if I need your advice, I'll ask for it."

  She was aware that his eyes followed her into the shadows as she climbed past the second story.

  Once inside her room she stripped, quickly showered, then renewed the bandage on her side before pulling on one of the boys’ old T-shirts and collapsing on her bed. She ached all over, and she didn't have the energy to move. The house was cold. She knew she should start a fire, but that would mean hauling in wood. The very thought of the work closed her eyes as she pulled a quilt over her body. She would do it later, in an hour or so after resting.