The Cabin Read online

  Praise for the novels of

  CARLA NEGGERS

  quot;Neggers's characteristically brisk pacing and colorful characterizations sweep the reader toward a dramatic and ultimately satisfying denouement."

  —Publishers Weekly on The Cabin

  "Tension-filled story line that grips the audience from start to finish."

  —Midwest Book Review on The Waterfall

  "Carla Neggers is one of the most distinctive, talented writers of our genre."

  —Debbie Macomber

  "Neggers delivers a colorful, well-spun story that shines with sincere emotion."

  —Publishers Weekly on The Carriage House

  "A well-defined, well-told story combines with well-written characters to make this an exciting read. Readers will enjoy it from beginning to end."

  —Romantic Times on The Waterfall

  "Gathers steam as its tantalizing mysteries explode into a thrilling climax."

  —Publishers Weekly on Kiss the Moon

  Also by CARLA NEGGERS

  THE RAPIDS

  NIGHT'S LANDING

  COLD RIDGE

  THE HARBOR

  STONEBROOK COTTAGE

  THE CARRIAGE HOUSE

  THE WATERFALL

  ON FIRE

  KISS THE MOON

  CLAIM THE CROWN

  Watch for CARLA NEGGERS'S next novel of romantic suspense

  DARK SKY

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  One of the great pleasures in finishing a book is getting the chance to express my gratitude to the many generous, knowledgeable people who took time from their own busy schedules to answer my questions. Christine Wenger not only answered every question I put to her—she made calls for me, read me penal codes, fact-checked and was an all-around pal who never told me to go away. (Well, she did, but I didn't take her seriously!) My wonderful friend Dorice Nelson and her husband, Shel Damsky, opened their gorgeous home to me and showed me the history and landscape of the Adirondacks as I've never seen them before—incredible!

  I'm also grateful to Kathy Lynn and Sandy Emerson, Gretchen Neggers, Joe Rebello, Maggie Price, Sandi Kitt, Julie Kistler and two incredibly courteous and knowledgeable Texas Rangers for answering law enforcement questions. Many thanks also to Meena Cheng for talking money with me. Blythe Jewell Gander, Jo-Ann Power, Mary Lynn and Len Baxter and all my family and many friends in Texas— thanks for everything.

  Finally, I want to thank everyone at MIRA Books—especially Valerie Gray, Amy Moore-Benson and Dianne Moggy—and Meg Ruley, my amiable and wonderful agent.

  Of course, any mistakes I've made and liberties I've taken are my doing. This is a story of pure fiction, straight out of my imagination, and I couldn't have had more fun writing it. Watch for Sam Temple's story next!

  Carla Neggers

  P.O. Box 826, Quechee, Vermont 05059 www.carlaneggers.com

  To Kate Jewell of central Vermont, Elizabeth Cesarini of middle Tennessee, Mikisha Doop of west Tennessee and Nicole Carbrera of southeast Texas… who all came together on that frightening July Fourth weekend in western Massachusetts, and made it through. You're an inspiration.

  Love you all, Mom/Carla

  One

  Susanna Galway sipped her margarita and watched the countdown to midnight on the television above the bar at Jim's Place, the small, dark pub just down the street from where she lived with her grandmother and twin teenage daughters. It had been a fixture in the neighborhood for as long as Susanna could remember.

  An hour to go. There'd be fireworks, a new year to celebrate. It was a clear, dark, very cold night in Boston, with temperatures barely in the teens, but thousands had still gone out to enjoy the many First Night festivities.

  Jim Haviland, the pub's owner, eyed Susanna with open suspicion. He made no secret that he thought she should have gone back to her husband in Texas months ago. And Susanna didn't disagree. But, still, she hadn't gone home.

  Jim laid a sparkling white bar towel on one of his powerful shoulders. "You're feeling sorry for yourself," he told her.

  She licked salt off her glass. It was warm in the bar, and she wished she hadn't opted for cashmere. Silk would have been better. She'd been determined to feel a little bit elegant tonight. But Jim had already told her she looked like the Wicked Witch of the East coming in there in her black skirt, sweater and boots, with her long black hair—apparently only her very green eyes saved her. Her coat was black, too, but she'd hung it up and tucked her black leather gloves in her pocket before sliding onto her stool. She hadn't bothered with a hat since the bar was only a few doors down from Gran's house.

  "I never feel sorry for myself," she said. "I looked at all my choices for the evening and decided I'd like nothing better than to ring in the New Year with one of my father's oldest friends."

  Jim snorted. "I know bullshit when I hear it."

  Susanna smiled at him, unrepentant. "You make a pretty good margarita for a Yankee." She set her glass down. "Why don't you make me another?"

  "Okay, but two's your limit. You're not passing out in my bar. I'm not calling your Texas Ranger husband and telling him I let his wife fall off one of my bar stools and hit her head—"

  "Such drama. I'm not getting myself drunk, and you'd call Gran, not Jack, because Gran's just up the street, and Jack's in San Antonio. And I know you're not the least bit intimidated because he's a Texas Ranger."

  Jim Haviland gave her a half smile. "Sixty-eight degrees in San Antonio."

  Susanna refused to let him get to her. He was the father of her best friend in Boston, her own father's boyhood friend and a surrogate uncle to her these past fourteen months since she'd been on her own up north.

  He was opinionated, solid and predictable. "Are you

  going to make me that margarita?" she asked.

  "You should be in Texas with your family."

  "I had Maggie and Ellen for Thanksgiving. Jack has them for Christmas and New Year's."

  Jim scowled. "Sounds like you're divvying up dibs on the neighborhood snowblower."

  "It doesn't snow in San Antonio," Susanna said with an easy smile. She'd put an imaginary, protective shield around her to get her through the night, and she was determined nothing would penetrate it—not guilt, not fear, not thoughts of the only man she'd ever loved. She and Jack had done the holidays together last year. That hadn't worked out very well. Their emotions were still too raw, neither ready to talk. Not that her husband was ever ready to talk.

  "You know," Jim said, "if I were Jack—"

  "If you were Jack, you'd be investigating serial killers instead of making me margaritas. What fun would that be?" She pushed her glass across the bar toward him. "Come on. A nice, fresh margarita. You can reuse my glass. Hold the salt this time if you want."

  "I'll hold the liquor before I hold the salt, and I'm not reusing your glass. Health laws."

  "There are six other bars within walking distance," Susanna said. "I have on my wool socks. I can find somebody to serve me another margarita."

  "They all use mixes."

  But Jim Haviland didn't call her bluff. He snatched up her empty glass and set it on a tray, then grabbed a fresh glass. His bar was impeccably clean. He offered one nightly dinner special and kept an eye on his customers, running his bar in strict accordance with Massachusetts law. People didn't come to Jim's Place to get drunk—it was a true neighborhood pub, as old-fash-ioned as its owner. Susanna had always felt safe there, welcomed even when Jim was on her case and she wasn't at her nicest herself.

  "I shipped Iris and her pals up a gallon of chili," he said. "How do you like that? Even your eighty-two-year-old grandmother's having more fun on New Year's than you are."

  "They're playing mahjong until five minutes after midnight. Then they're c
alling it quits and going to bed."

  Jim eyed her again, less critically. He was a big, powerfully built man in his early sixties who treated Susanna like an honorary niece, if a wayward one. "You went home last New Year's," he pointed out softly.

  And she'd meant for her and Jack to settle whatever was going on between them, but the one time they were alone, on New Year's Eve, they'd ended up in bed together. They hadn't settled anything.

  Exactly one year ago, she'd been making love to her husband.

  Two margaritas weren't going to do the trick. She could get herself rip-roaring drunk, but it wouldn't stop her from thinking about where she'd been last year at this time and where she was now. Nothing had changed. Not one damn thing.

  Fourteen months and counting, and she and Jack were still in limbo, a kind of marital paralysis that she knew couldn't last. Maggie and Ellen were seniors in high school now, applying to colleges, almost grown up. They'd called a couple of hours ago, and Susanna had assured them she was ringing in the New Year in style. No mahjong with Gran and her pals. She didn't want her daughters thinking she was pitiful.

  She hadn't talked to Jack.

  "There's nobody here, Jim," she said. "Why don't you close up the place? We can go up on the roof and catch the fireworks."

  He looked up from the margarita he was reluctantly fixing for her. His movements were careful, deliberate. And his blue eyes were serious. "Susanna, what's wrong?"

  "I bought a cabin in the Adirondacks," she blurted. "But that's good. It's a great cabin. It's in a gorgeous spot. Three bedrooms, stone fireplace, seven acres right on Blackwater Lake."

  "The Adirondacks are way the hell up in New York."

  She nodded. "The largest wilderness area in the lower forty-eight states. Six million acres. Gran grew up on Blackwater Lake, you know. Her family used to own the local inn—"

  "Susanna. For God's sake." Jim Haviland shook his head heavily, as if this new development—a cabin in the Adirondacks—was beyond his comprehension. "You should buy a place in Texas, not in the boonies of upstate New York. What were you thinking? Jesus, when did this happen?"

  "Last week. I went up to Lake Placid for a few days on my own—I don't know, it seemed like a positive thing to do. I needed to clear my head. I saw this cabin. It's not all that far from my parents' summer place on Lake Champlain. I couldn't resist. I figured if not now, when?"

  "You and clearing your head. I've been listening to that line for months. The only thing that's going to clear your damn head is marching your ass back to Texas and sorting things out with your husband. Not buying cabins in the freaking woods."

  Susanna pretended not to hear him. "Gran's practically a legend in the Adirondacks, did you know that? She was a guide in her teens and early twenties, before she and my dad moved to Boston. He was just a little tyke—I'm sure he doesn't remember. Gran seemed a little shocked when I told her I'd bought a place right on Blackwater Lake."

  Jim shoved the fresh margarita in front of her, his jaw set hard. He didn't say a word.

  She picked up the heavy glass, picturing herself standing on the porch of the cabin, staring out at the ice and snow on the lakes and surrounding mountains. "Something happened to me when I was up there—I don't know if I can explain it. It's as if this cabin was just meant to be. As if I was supposed to buy it."

  "Moved by invisible forces?"

  She ignored his sarcasm. "Yes." She sipped her drink, which she noticed was not as strong as her first one. "My roots are there."

  "Roots, my ass. Iris and your dad haven't lived in the Adirondacks in, what, sixty years?"

  He shook his head, plainly mystified by this latest move of hers. He hadn't liked it when she'd set up her office in Boston with Tess, his daughter who was a graphic artist, then stayed on her own after Tess had moved up to her nineteenth-century carriage house on the north shore with her new family. Office space implied a permanence Jim Haviland didn't want Susanna to establish in Boston. He wanted her back with her husband. It was the way his world worked.

  Hers, too, but life wasn't always that simple.

  Plus, she knew Jim liked Lieutenant Jack Galway, Texas Ranger. No surprise there. They were both men who saw most things in terms of black and white.

  Jim wiped down the bar with his white towel, putting muscle into the effort, as if somehow it might relieve his frustrations with her and make him understand why she'd bought a cabin. "The Adirondacks are what, a five, six-hour drive?"

  "About that." Susanna drank more of her margarita. "I got my pilot's license this fall. Jack doesn't know. Maybe I'll buy a plane. There's a nice little airport in Lake Placid."

  Jim stared at her, assessing. "A cabin in the mountains, a plane, black cashmere—how much damn money do you have?"

  Her stomach twisted into an instantaneous knot.

  She had ten million as of the first of October. It was a milestone. People knew she was doing well, but few had any idea how well—not even her own husband. She just didn't talk about it. She didn't want money clouding anyone's opinion of her. Of themselves. She didn't want it to change her life, except maybe it already had. "I've made some lucky investments," she told Jim.

  "Ha. I'll bet luck had nothing to do with it. You're smart, Susanna Dunning Galway. You're smart, and you're tough, and—" He paused for air, which he sucked in, then heaved out in a despairing sigh. "Damn it, Susanna, you have no goddamn business buying a cabin in the Adirondacks. Jack doesn't know?"

  "You don't give up, do you?"

  "That means, no, Jack doesn't know. What are you doing, trying to piss him off to the point he gives up on you—or comes up here to fetch you?"

  "He's not coming up here to fetch me."

  "Don't count on it."

  A young couple wandered in and sat at one of the tables, hanging on to each other, not bothering with First Night festivities, Susanna thought, for very different reasons than hers. Jim greeted them warmly and went around the bar to take their order, but he stopped to glower back at her. "Did you tell Iris you were buying a place in her old stomping grounds, give her a chance to weigh in?" He didn't wait for her to answer. "No, you didn't, because you're bullheaded and do what you damn well want to do."

  "I'm not selfish—"

  "I didn't say you were selfish. You're one of the kindest, most generous people I know. I said you're bullheaded."

  Her head spun. Maybe she should have consulted Jack. His name wasn't on the deed but they were still married. She planned to get around to telling him—it wasn't like her cabin was a secret. Not really. When she was on Blackwater Lake, her husband and her marriage weren't the issue. The cabin was about her, her life, her roots. She couldn't explain. She'd almost felt as if she'd been destined to go up there, see the lake on her own, that somehow it would help her make sense of the past fourteen months.

  Jim took the couple's order and headed back behind the bar. Before she said another word, he dipped her up a bowl of steaming chili and set it in front of her. "You need something in your stomach."

  "I really want another margarita."

  "Not a chance."

  "I live up the street." She stared at the chili, spicy and hot on a very cold Boston night. But she wasn't hungry. "If I pass out in a ditch, somebody will find me before I freeze to death."

  Jim refrained from answering. Davey Ahearn had come into the bar, easing onto his favorite stool just down from Susanna. Susanna could feel the cold still coming off him. He shook his head at her. "Pain in the ass you are, Suzie, I wouldn't count on it. We all might leave you in the damn ditch, hope the cold'll jump-start your brain and you'll go back to Texas."

  "The cold weather doesn't bother me."

  Of course, the cold wasn't Davey's point at all, and she knew it. He was a big man, a plumber with a huge handlebar mustache and at least two ex-wives. He was another of her father's boyhood friends, godfather to Jim Haviland's daughter, Tess, and a constant thorn in Su-sanna's side. Tess said it was best not to encourage Davey A
hearn by trying to argue with him, but Susanna seldom could resist—and neither could Tess.

  He ordered a beer and a bowl of chili with saltines, and Susanna made an exaggerated face. "Saltines and chili? That's disgusting."

  "What're you doing here, anyway?" Davey shivered, as if still shaking off the frigid temperatures. Boston had been in the grips of a bitter cold snap for days, and even the natives had had enough. "Go play mahjong with Iris and her pals. A million years old, and they know how to party."

  "You're right," Susanna said. "It's not a good sign, me sitting in a Somerville bar drinking margaritas and eating chili with a cranky plumber."

  Davey grinned at her. "I eat chili with a fork."

  She bit back an unwilling laugh. "That's really bad, Davey. I mean, really bad."

  "Made you smile." His beer and nightly special arrived, and he unwrapped three packets of saltine crackers and crumbled them onto his chili, paying no attention to Susanna's groan. "Jimmy, how long before we can stick a fork in this year?"

  "Twenty-five minutes," Jim said. "I thought you had a date."

  "I did. She got mad and went home."

  Although she wasn't hungry, Susanna tried some of her chili. "Davey Ahearn annoying a woman? I can't imagine."

  "Was that sarcasm, Mrs. Jack Galway?"

  Jim intervened. "All right, you two. I'm opening a bottle of bubbly at midnight. It's on the house. What do we have, a half-dozen people in here?"

  He lined up the glasses on the bar. Susanna watched him work, the chili burning in her mouth, the two margaritas she'd consumed on an empty stomach making her a little woozy. "Do you think I had kids too young?" Susanna asked abruptly, without thinking. It had to be the margaritas. "I don't. I think it was just what happened. I was twenty-two, and all of a sudden, I'm pregnant with twins."

  "I bet it wasn't all of a sudden," Davey said.

  She pretended not to hear him. "And here I am with this man—this independent, hardheaded Texan who wants to be a Texas Ranger never mind that he went to Harvard. We met when he was a student—"