Green Mountain Man Read online

  "Oh, mother," she sighed, "it's not that I don't understand. I know you love me, but I'm twenty-eight years old. I have my own home and my own family now. I have to live my own life and make my own mistakes. You can't keep treating me like a child and trying to run my life."

  "I am not trying to run your life, but I can't stop thinking of you as my daughter."

  "I will always be your daughter," Bridget agreed patiently. "The only difference is that I'm an adult. Please give me some credit for having a little common sense and intelligence."

  "I do—I always have," her mother insisted.

  "Have you? Is that why ten years ago—"

  "Ten years ago you were too blinded by romantic dreams to see anything for yourself," Margaret reproved sharply. "And ten years ago I proved that he was not the man for you. I don't understand why you keep harping back to the same subject."

  Bridget turned away. It was not something she could discuss with her mother. "I have to get dressed. Jim will be here in a few minutes."

  As she started toward the bedroom, her mother asked, "Where are the two of you going tonight? Didn't you say something about a show in Montpelier?"

  "That's where we were going originally, but Jim called this afternoon to change it." Her response was automatic.

  "Where are you going?"

  Bridget stopped, her mouth opening in a silent laugh born of anger and disbelief. "Didn't you hear a word I said earlier, mother?" she asked. "I don't have to account to you for my whereabouts."

  "Someone should know where you'll be in case something should happen to Molly and we would need to get a hold of you," Margaret reasoned.

  Shaking her head, Bridget didn't argue. Sometimes it was easier to give in than to fight for every scrap of her independence.

  "Bob and Evelyn Tyler are having a party tonight. We're going there," she sighed. "Mrs. Smith knows where she can reach me."

  "The Tylers?" Her mother's mouth curved in an expression of distaste. "Their parties can be such rowdy affairs."

  "They're good clean fun. Noisy sometimes," Bridget admitted, "but remember, mother, we live in Vermont where the trees are close together and the people are far apart. Run along home. Dad will be wondering where you are."

  "What's the occasion? For the party, I mean."

  Margaret typically ignored what she didn't want to hear.

  "There isn't any occasion—just some friends getting together on a Saturday night. Now I have to get dressed." Again she started toward the bedroom.

  "What time will you be home?"

  Bridget stopped, angry sparks flashing in her eyes. "I have no idea." She looked over her shoulder in challenge. "Maybe I won't come home," she threatened falsely. "Maybe I'll find an orgy going on somewhere and have Jim take me to it instead!"

  "Bridget!" her mother breathed in shocked astonishment. She found nothing funny about the false threat.

  "You'd better leave. Because, so help me, if you're still here when Jim comes, I'll start locking the door and I'll make sure you don't have a key!"

  "I don't know what's the matter with you, Bridget, but you've certainly been short-tempered lately," Margaret declared indignantly.

  The bedroom door banged against its frame as Bridget angrily shut it behind her. Immediately she stopped, breathing a silent laugh. The bedroom-door-slamming scene was an often-repeated one, a part of her childhood she hadn't left behind. It was a childish display of temper. At twenty-eight, Bridget had become convinced that no one grows up. They only become inhibited.

  As for the shortness of her temper, she knew the reason for that, too, and her preoccupation with the past. It was a direct result of that Friday in March when Jonas had stopped at the store. When she'd seen him standing outside, she had nearly gone to pieces.

  Fortunately, Mrs. Dutton had kept rattling on about something. When he'd walked into the store, she couldn't make up her mind whether to run to him or from him. She had done neither.

  All in all, Bridget thought she had handled the meeting fairly well, appearing calm and poised regardless of the emotional turmoil that had been going on inside. There had been a couple of bad moments. In the end, she had kept her pride intact and brushed him off.

  Previously she had been convinced that, although she hadn't forgotten him, he had become just an unpleasant memory, Bridget had really begun to believe she could have a happy and rewarding life without Jonas.

  But seeing him again had brought back all the love and passion she had felt, and all the searing hurt she had known ten years ago. It wasn't easy reliving it again and going through the agony of getting over him a second time. She would, of course, and maybe this time it wouldn't take as long.

  In the meantime, Jim would be arriving any second. Vermont's merry widow, he called her. Bridget was determined that tonight she would be just that, without any memories of the past to haunt her.

  The merriest person at the party would be Bridget O'Shea, widow of the late Brian O'Shea. Walking to her closet, she began to search for an outfit that would match her new mood.

  Twenty minutes later a male voice called out, "Hello? Anybody home?"

  "I'll be right out, Jim," Bridget answered, taking a last-minute look in the mirror, fluffing the sides of her hair with her fingers before leaving the bedroom. "How do I look?"

  She made a brief pirouette before the man standing in front of the sliding-glass doors. Medium height, on the stocky side, with dark hair, Jim studied her appreciatively through his dark-rimmed glasses.

  "Like a blast of sunshine." A lazy grin spread across his face, the ready smile one of the most appealing things about him, as he ran an appraising eye over her slender, slacks-clad figure.

  "Too bright, is it?" Bridget laughed, glancing down at her slacks.

  The plaid of her slacks was in shades of yellow, predominantly canary, with a thin red stripe for outline contrast. The short-sleeved knit top with a scooped neckline was white with a large flower of the plaid material appliqued in the front.

  "It looks great," Jim assured her in a voice that said he had only been kidding before.

  "Will I need a jacket, do you think?" She hesitated.

  "That depends on whether or not you were planning to take a moonlight stroll with me around midnight." His fingers curled an imaginary moustache.

  "Seriously, Jim." Bridget smiled with affectionate exasperation.

  "I was serious." He lifted his shoulders in an expressive shrug and sighed. "But you're not."

  "Come on—" she refused to let the conversation shift to their personal relationship "—should I take a jacket or not?"

  "Probably should," Jim answered at last. "It's hard telling how much of the party will be outside and how much in. It could get chilly after the sun goes down."

  "I'll take my windbreaker," Bridget decided. "I think it's in the kitchen."

  "Hurry up," he prompted as she started toward the kitchen. "I volunteered to bring a keg of beer and I don't want it to get warm before we get to Bob's."

  The jacket was draped over the back of the chair near the breakfast table. "Here it is." Bridget folded it over her arm and turned to rejoin Jim.

  Her attention was caught by the spotless sink, not a trace of lettuce or scallions in sight. She looked for the roses and saw the vase sitting on the coffee table in the living room, rearranged into a more attractive grouping than she had done.

  "Of all the—" She snapped her teeth shut on the rest of the angry ejaculation. "I don't believe it"

  "Don't believe what?" Jim asked curiously. "Why the frown? What's wrong?"

  "Nothing," she breathed heavily. "It's just my mother, tidying up after me."

  "My mother is the same way. Irritating, isn't it?" he agreed with a smile. "Ready?" He opened the sliding-glass door onto the porch of the chalet for her. "It can't be easy living across the road from your parents, still under their thumb, so to speak."

  Bridget flicked a brief glance at the big white house opposite her small chalet. "Th
at's putting it mildly at times," she replied and walked beside Jim to his small Datsun wagon. "I think my mother spends as much time taking care of my house as she does her own."

  "Not everybody can have free maid service," Jim said, looking at the bright side as he opened the passenger door of the car for Bridget.

  She smiled in rueful acceptance of his attempt. "True. I guess it really isn't too bad. And I certainly can't say that I didn't know what my neighbors would be like before I moved in here."

  "Now you have the idea," he smiled and walked around the car to the driver's side.

  "It was especially convenient when Molly was younger" Bridget enlarged on the statement "I didn't have to worry about her coming home from school and not having anyone here because I was working. All she had to do was walk across the road to grandma's until I came."

  "Molly's a bright kid," Jim commented idly as he reversed out of the driveway. "Is she staying over there tonight?"

  "No, she's spending the night with a girl friend, much to mother's dismay," she sighed. "My mother is a snob."

  "Your mother is a do-gooder like mine," he corrected. "She always does what she thinks is right and proper for somebody else, regardless of that somebody else's opinion, and makes enemies instead of grateful friends."

  "Did you say you were a psychology professor?" Bridget laughed.

  "No, I just know my mother. And from what you've told me about yours, they could be related," he grinned.

  "You're very good for me, Jim." She leaned back in the seat, relaxing, no longer upset by her mother's interference.

  "I could be better, but we won't go into that," he added quickly when his sliding glance saw Bridget tense. "Patience is one of my main virtues, as you'll discover."

  "And perception," she added thoughtfully.

  "It doesn't take much perception to see that you were deeply hurt when you lost your husband," Jim shrugged.

  She looked out the window at the vividly green landscape. "Brian was a good man, compassionate and understanding. You're like him in many ways."

  "Is that why you're so wary? The good don't always die young, Bridget," he teased, but with a note of seriousness.

  "I know," she agreed, nodding faintly without letting her gaze wander from the countryside. "It's all so green, isn't it?"

  Jim studied her profile for a second, knowing she had deliberately changed the subject, but as he had said, he was patient. Six months ago, she had refused to go out with him. He had made progress since then.

  "Like an emerald jewel," he commented.

  It was only a few minutes' drive to the Tyler house. Of course, any place in Vermont seemed to be only a short drive away through unspoiled countryside. Rolling hills and jutting mountains were covered with trees in every shade of green—pines, maples, and birch. Verdant meadows and fields dotted the valleys, rustic and beautiful with occasional stone-wall fences meandering through them.

  A stand of white birch marked the front lawn of the Tyler house. There were already several cars in the driveway when Jim pulled in. The sounds of laughing voices and music indicated the party had begun.

  "I think everyone's in the backyard," Jim observed. "You go ahead and I'll get the keg of beer from the back."

  "All right." Bridget smiled, stepping out of the car when he switched off the engine.

  She had barely rounded the corner of the house when she was hailed with a chorus of greetings. A half a dozen couples had already arrived. Hamburgers were sizzling on the grills set up near the picnic tables in the backyard. One table was already laden with an assortment of other foods for a buffet.

  "It's about time you came. We were going to eat without you," Bob threatened laughingly.

  "No, you wouldn't," Bridget countered, "Jim is bringing the beer."

  At that moment, Jim rounded the corner, toting the keg of beer on his shoulder. Thirsty volunteers gave him a hand in setting it down and breaking it open. With good-natured jostling, they argued over who would draw the first draft.

  Evelyn emerged from the rear entrance of the house, pot holders offering a protective grip for the handles of the hot dish she was carrying. She started to greet Bridget, but didn't complete it.

  "Bob!" she wailed in protest. "You were supposed to be watching the hamburgers!"

  "Sorry." Bob, tall and dark with a waistline that was beginning to thicken, raced to the smoking grills. "I hope everybody wants their hamburgers well-done," he joked as he began the rescue efforts.

  "'He's worse than a child," Evelyn murmured to Bridget with a rueful shake of her head. "You can't turn your back on him for a minute."

  "Can I help with something?" Bridget asked.

  "You can fix the relish tray. Everything is in the refrigerator and the dish is on the counter," her hostess suggested.

  The barbecue parties the Tyler's gave were always informal gatherings with everyone lending a hand. It was almost a family affair. Most of the couples had known each other since school days.

  "Consider it done." Bridget started toward the house.

  "Keep the cat out of the jelly, will you?" Evelyn called after her. "I don't know what he thinks it is, but he's fascinated by it."

  "Will do." She laughed the promise.

  The pumpkin-colored tomcat was crouched on a kitchen chair when Bridget entered the house. An unmolded jellied salad, the object of the cat's interest, was sitting on the table. His tail swished in resentment as she shooed it from the chair before walking to the refrigerator.

  Humming softly to herself, she began setting out the celery, carrot sticks and various other ingredients she found and began arranging them on the partitioned plate. As she was spooning olives from the jar, she heard footsteps enter the kitchen from another room of the house. Anticipating one of the three Tyler children, she didn't bother to look.

  "Hello, Bridget."

  The spoon of olives halted in midair. For an instant she couldn't breathe. Her gaze darted to the man pausing beside her to lean a shoulder against the refrigerator door. First searing fire, then ice ran through her veins.

  "Hello, Jonas." Was that her voice responding so calmly? "I see you've finally managed to accept Bob's invitation for a visit."

  Her hand was amazingly steady as it carried the spoon to the relish tray, but she was painfully aware of him standing beside her. The clean male scent of him filled her senses.

  His hair glistened damply as if he had recently stepped from the shower, darkening its normal golden brown shade. A white shirt was opened at the throat, its long sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. A pair of crisp new Levi's covered his long legs.

  "Yes. I canceled my March visit." Jonas reached past her to steal an olive. "But I imagine you know that," he added dryly.

  "Evelyn mentioned you'd called at the last minute to postpone it," Bridget admitted. It would have been useless to deny it.

  "And you didn't say anything about seeing me." It was a statement, not really needing any confirmation.

  "I didn't see the point." She added more olives to the tray, "They were already disappointed that you hadn't come. I know they must be delighted to have you here now."

  There was room for more radishes, but Bridget didn't bother with them. She wanted to get out of the house and become insulated from Jonas's presence by the crowd outside.

  "You aren't," Jonas stated.

  "I'm not what?" She screwed the lid on the olive jar, avoiding his gaze as she had since he had appeared.

  "Delighted that I'm here now," he mocked.

  "Of course I am," she lied brightly.

  "That's funny. You don't look it," Jonas observed dryly, tipping his head slightly to gets better view of her expression.

  "I'm sorry you think that." Bridget shrugged and picked, up the relish tray. As she turned to leave, Jonas moved as if intending to keep her from going. "Would you bring the jellied salad from the table when you come? I think we're just about ready to eat."

  His brooding gray green eyes studied h
er seemingly composed-features for a disturbing second before he walked to the table. Bridget knew he was right behind her when she left the house.

  "Finally the guest of honor arrives!" Bob declared when he saw Jonas following her. He lifted his glass of beer in a toast. "Welcome home, Jonas!"

  Evidently this was Jonas's first appearance at the party, Bridget guessed, as the other couples gathered around to greet him. Placing the relish tray with the other food dishes, Bridget walked to the charcoal grills where Evelyn had replaced Bob as the chef.

  "Let me hold the platter," she offered, taking the oblong flat dish that Evelyn was trying to balance while lifting the patties from the grill with a long-handled spatula.

  It was surrendered willingly. "Jonas is receiving a hero's welcome, isn't he?" Evelyn spared a brief glance in the direction of the main group.

  "He certainly is!"

  The hint of sharpness in Bridget's voice didn't go unnoticed. She realized it when she saw the flicker of concern in Evelyn's green eyes.

  "You don't mind about Jonas being here, do you?" she asked. "After Bob asked you and Jim, I wondered if it would bother you. The two of you broke up so suddenly. None of us had ever known exactly what went wrong. You left so soon after Jonas did."

  "No, I don't mind," Bridget rushed in to assure her. "It all happened ten years ago."

  "I'm glad you feel that way." Her hostess sighed in relief.

  The truth was that it seemed like only yesterday. Bridget's gaze wandered to Jonas, haunting memories clouding her eyes. The first time she'd seen him eleven years ago she thought he looked like a mountain man, tall and rugged, standing an inch over six feet.

  Well muscled, without an ounce of spare flesh, he gave an erroneous appearance of leanness. His wide chest and shoulders tapered to slim waist and hips. There had been something primitive and dangerous about him then, an earthy maleness that was virilely lethal.

  Ten years hadn't made any changes in his appearance, except that he looked harder, more cynical and more arrogantly aloof now. A veneer of sophistication covered the set of his ruggedly, hewn features, but Jonas was still charismatic. He would still be noticed in a crowd.