approached and reached up to stuff the bills in the pocket of his shirt.
“Thank you so much for coming to my aid, Mr. Renard. In the future I promise to be less demanding. You can take your paper and shove it up—”
“Whoa, neighbors,” said Russell, walking up in time to interrupt. His smile was broad as he looked at Madeleine and Renard. He clapped a hand on Renard's arm and said, “You're not letting this ugly old Indian get to you, are you?” he said jokingly to Madeleine.
“Not at all,” she said.
“Good. You look like the quiet, cultured type. Mind if I ask your situation?”
Madeleine lifted her brows. “My situation?”
“What you do. Why you're here.”
“I'm an ex-professor of anthropology,” Madeleine answered. “As for why I'm here, well, I've been wondering that myself for the last three days.”
She felt Renard look at her when she mentioned being an ex-professor. Then he directed his attention to finishing under the hood. Soon he was getting in behind the wheel to try and start the truck.
“An anthropologist,” said Russell with undisguised admiration. “I spotted that gleam of intelligence the moment I saw you.”
“Lying in the middle of the road and screaming my head off?”
“The next moment then,” said Russell, smiling his broad smile again.
Beside them, the truck's engine started and began to idle. Madeleine thanked Russell for his help and heard him say he looked forward to seeing her again, perhaps at the dance the following Thursday at Diamond Bay.
”A dance?” said Madeleine.
”A band comes in and sets up among the RV hookups. People get a chance to know each other and have some fun. You should come over.”
“I'll consider it,” said Madeleine.
“Good.”
She turned away from him to find Renard holding the door of the truck open for her. She couldn't read his eyes behind the dark glasses, and she kept hers purposely expressionless.
Demanding, he had said.
“Thank you again for your assistance,” she said, and watched as he did nothing to acknowledge her thanks. Not even a tip of the hat.
When she was on the seat and had her seatbelt on, he closed the door of the truck and walked away, back to his own truck. Russell gave her a final wave, and Madeleine nodded to him as she put the truck in gear and pulled away from the bridge.
On the way home she found herself thinking of the way Renard's mouth had twitched when Russell called him an “ugly old Indian.” Madeleine didn't think he was necessarily ugly. It was the pits and scars that made his face appear so frightful. And neither was he old. It was difficult to tell, but she thought he was still under thirty.
Perhaps compared to Dale Russell, Eris Renard was ugly, but his better features were fated to be forever obscured by the proliferation of scars. Frequent exposure to him revealed a nice mouth with a perfect shape, though she had never seen him smile. His eyes, too, were striking, with long, thick lashes and curved black brows.
Madeleine experienced a strange spark when she saw his mouth twitch, and the urge to berate the handsome Dale Russell for his remark was strong. But she would only have embarrassed Renard by opening her mouth, and so she let it and all the anger she felt toward him pass.
Back at the cabin she fed the kittens another half can of food and watched as they snorted and sneezed and waded around on the plate. When they were finished, she got up and prepared their litter box, placing it in the corner of what Jacqueline called the mudroom, where a miniature washer and dryer sat. One by one she showed each kitten the position of the litter box and placed them inside to sniff and scratch around. When she was satisfied they knew where to find it, she went into the kitchen to wash her hands and see about something to eat for her.
She had left a chicken out to thaw earlier and was busy preparing it when she realized that up to now she had been joking and kidding with herself about
“Thank you so much for coming to my aid, Mr. Renard. In the future I promise to be less demanding. You can take your paper and shove it up—”
“Whoa, neighbors,” said Russell, walking up in time to interrupt. His smile was broad as he looked at Madeleine and Renard. He clapped a hand on Renard's arm and said, “You're not letting this ugly old Indian get to you, are you?” he said jokingly to Madeleine.
“Not at all,” she said.
“Good. You look like the quiet, cultured type. Mind if I ask your situation?”
Madeleine lifted her brows. “My situation?”
“What you do. Why you're here.”
“I'm an ex-professor of anthropology,” Madeleine answered. “As for why I'm here, well, I've been wondering that myself for the last three days.”
She felt Renard look at her when she mentioned being an ex-professor. Then he directed his attention to finishing under the hood. Soon he was getting in behind the wheel to try and start the truck.
“An anthropologist,” said Russell with undisguised admiration. “I spotted that gleam of intelligence the moment I saw you.”
“Lying in the middle of the road and screaming my head off?”
“The next moment then,” said Russell, smiling his broad smile again.
Beside them, the truck's engine started and began to idle. Madeleine thanked Russell for his help and heard him say he looked forward to seeing her again, perhaps at the dance the following Thursday at Diamond Bay.
”A dance?” said Madeleine.
”A band comes in and sets up among the RV hookups. People get a chance to know each other and have some fun. You should come over.”
“I'll consider it,” said Madeleine.
“Good.”
She turned away from him to find Renard holding the door of the truck open for her. She couldn't read his eyes behind the dark glasses, and she kept hers purposely expressionless.
Demanding, he had said.
“Thank you again for your assistance,” she said, and watched as he did nothing to acknowledge her thanks. Not even a tip of the hat.
When she was on the seat and had her seatbelt on, he closed the door of the truck and walked away, back to his own truck. Russell gave her a final wave, and Madeleine nodded to him as she put the truck in gear and pulled away from the bridge.
On the way home she found herself thinking of the way Renard's mouth had twitched when Russell called him an “ugly old Indian.” Madeleine didn't think he was necessarily ugly. It was the pits and scars that made his face appear so frightful. And neither was he old. It was difficult to tell, but she thought he was still under thirty.
Perhaps compared to Dale Russell, Eris Renard was ugly, but his better features were fated to be forever obscured by the proliferation of scars. Frequent exposure to him revealed a nice mouth with a perfect shape, though she had never seen him smile. His eyes, too, were striking, with long, thick lashes and curved black brows.
Madeleine experienced a strange spark when she saw his mouth twitch, and the urge to berate the handsome Dale Russell for his remark was strong. But she would only have embarrassed Renard by opening her mouth, and so she let it and all the anger she felt toward him pass.
Back at the cabin she fed the kittens another half can of food and watched as they snorted and sneezed and waded around on the plate. When they were finished, she got up and prepared their litter box, placing it in the corner of what Jacqueline called the mudroom, where a miniature washer and dryer sat. One by one she showed each kitten the position of the litter box and placed them inside to sniff and scratch around. When she was satisfied they knew where to find it, she went into the kitchen to wash her hands and see about something to eat for her.
She had left a chicken out to thaw earlier and was busy preparing it when she realized that up to now she had been joking and kidding with herself about
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