Holding Off for a Hero Read online

  Table of Contents

  Holding Off for a Hero

  Copyright

  Praise for Gail MacMillan

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Holding Off

  for a Hero

  by

  Gail MacMillan

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Holding Off for a Hero

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Gail MacMillan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Champagne Rose Edition, 2012

  Print ISBN 978-1-61217-439-6

  Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-440-2

  Published in the United States of America

  Praise for Gail MacMillan

  HOLDING OFF FOR A HERO: “Take one hunky, level-headed hero and his dignified German Shepherd dog, throw them together with an irrepressible heroine and her equally irrepressible Pug, toss in a little mystery, and what do you have? A really fun read from Gail MacMillan, that's what!”

  ~Norah Wilson, winning author,

  New Voice in Romance

  ~*~

  "From the opening line, this story will keep you reading to find out how it will end. Add two beloved pets to the mix and you've got a great, entertaining read."

  ~Gail Savoy, editor and award-winning journalist

  ~*~

  “Written by a superb story teller, THE CALEDONIAN PRIVATEER seizes the reader’s interest…and doesn’t let it go.”

  ~Irene C. Michel, author & columnist

  ~*~

  “The powerful attraction between…a woman of mystery, and…a handsome rogue of means and determination sets the stage for thrilling adventure... Gail MacMillan sweeps the reader into her story with the skill of a master storyteller.”

  ~Stella MacLean, published author

  ~*~

  “This is a wonderful suspense-filled romance…. I loved Ms. MacMillan’s story of love and piracy and can’t wait to read her next one.”

  ~Robin, Romancing the Book Reviews (4 Roses)

  ~*~

  And you’ll also want to look for

  GHOST OF WINTERS PAST

  newly available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Dedication

  To the real life Emma

  and her own special hero

  Chapter One

  “Help! He’s drowning! Help!”

  Frasier MacKenzie leaped out of his white Ford Bronco, his German Shepherd dog at his heels, and sprinted toward the dock, where a woman in a striped bathrobe, a white towel turbaned around her head, stood shrieking and pointing out over the fog-draped water. Tearing off his jacket and shirt, he ran to the end of the pier.

  “Where is he?” He paused beside her, hopping on one foot and then the other as he tugged off his running shoes.

  “Out there, over to the left! Hurry, hurry, he can’t swim! He’s only three years old!”

  Frasier dove into the cold September waters of Loon Lake and struck out with long, powerful crawl strokes. From somewhere in the blanket of mist ahead of him came frantic splashing sounds and muted whimpering.

  “Take it easy, son. I’m coming.”

  A small round head, a black mask and ears, and a pair of thrashing paws emerged from the water. He missed a stroke. What is it, the Loon Lake version of the Loch Ness Monster? No, damn it, she’s sent me to rescue a Pug!

  Eyes huge with fear, front paws thrashing, the little dog emitted frantic whimpering sounds as he battled to keep his wide mouth above water. The next instant he submerged.

  “Hang on, fella.” Frasier grabbed him by his collar before he could sink out of reach and pulled the sputtering Pug to the surface. “Take it easy, fella. You’re safe now.” He swung about and headed for the dock.

  “Oh, Bruiser, oh, my precious sweetie! I was so scared!” The woman dropped onto her stomach and reached for the Pug.

  Frasier hoisted himself out of the frigid water and squinted up at her through the lake water running down his face as she got to her feet. Above that ugly housecoat, large green eyes and a peaches-and-cream complexion enhanced one of the prettiest faces he’d seen outside of a movie theatre.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she breathed, sincerity glowing out of those fantastic emerald eyes. “I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d lost Bruiser. I couldn’t help him. I can’t swim either.”

  “Bruiser?” Frasier rose to his feet and pushed back his dripping hair. About his own age, he guessed, she stood a good ten inches shorter as they stood facing each other barefoot.

  “Yes, like the dog in Legally Blonde.”

  Who names their dog after something in a chick flick?

  “I’d advise you to keep him away from docks…at least until he learns to swim,” he said. “Why can’t he swim? I thought all dogs could.”

  “He was thrown from a jet ski as a pup…before I adopted him. He’s been terrified of water ever since. Up here he’s started chasing frogs.” She cuddled the Pug and kissed him. “He must have chased one out onto the dock and right off the end. The fog probably confused him. Instead of paddling toward the dock, he was heading away from it.”

  The little dog began to choke.

  “Oh, Bruise! What’s wrong?” Her face crinkling, she looked down at him.

  “He’s swallowed a lot of water. Give him a bit of the Heimlich maneuver.”

  “What?” She swung the Pug to face Frasier.

  “Squeeze his belly just below the ribs. Here, let me…”

  As he stepped forward, the little dog issued a belch. A stream of lake water laced with kibble fountained over Frasier’s chest.

  “Bruiser, good boy!” She kissed the top of his head.

  Just what I needed. Dog barf on top of ice water.

  “Oh, I am sorry.” She looked up at Frasier as he snatched one of his discarded socks and scrubbed at his chest. “We haven’t even thanked you yet. Please…come up to the cabin. You can dry off while I make breakfast. By the way, I’m Emma Prescott.” She clutched the Pug in her left arm and extended her right hand.

  “Frasier MacKenzie.” He dropped the soiled sock, wiped his hand on the seat of his wet jeans, and accepted hers in it. “And Scout.” He indicated the German Shepherd. “You’re staying here?” He pointed to the two log cabins barely visible through the fog. “I thought I was the only one living at Loon Lake.”

  “You’re my neighbor?” Emma Prescott perused him, head to toe.

  “Apparently. My job keeps me in this area. What about you? This is a long way from civilization for a woman alone.”

  “My apartment in town suffered smoke and water damage in a recent fire. It’s not easy to find a place that accepts dogs…as you probably know.” She indicated Scout, who looked up at Bruiser and slow
ly began to wag his tail. Bruiser wiggled his in return.

  “Agreed. But way up here? This area is pure wilderness. I assume you work in town?”

  “I’m a guidance counselor at Carleton High School,” she said. “A forty-five-minute drive to work doesn’t bother me if I have this lovely place to come home to each night.”

  “Yeah, it is nice,” he agreed glancing back toward the pair of log cabins on the lake shore behind them.

  Backed by mountains with hardwoods beginning to develop their autumn hues of gold, orange, and red, and fronted by wide, wilderness-surrounded Loon Lake, the two little chalets nestled near its shore would make a great photo cover for an outdoor magazine.

  “It is isolated, though, for a…” His voice trailed off as he realized he was about to repeat himself.

  “For a woman alone? I feel a lot safer here than in an inner-city apartment. But enough chitchat. You must be freezing. Come up to my cabin. I’ll whip up some bacon and eggs.”

  She started to turn away, but he stopped her.

  “Okay. I’ll run over to my place and shower. I don’t think you want someone in my condition at your table.”

  She gave him a head-to-toe appraisal. A mischievous twinkle lighted up her eyes. He got a flash of how a woman feels when a man ogles her.

  Damn, I’m not going to blush, am I?

  “O…kay.” Holding the Pug in her arms, she headed toward the shore.

  Through lifting layers of fog, Frasier watched her go up the steps and into the first cabin, the one previously unoccupied. What was he going to do about her? Emma Prescott had just become an unexpected crimp in his plans. He’d have to tell the Professor and get his take on the situation. One thing he knew for certain. He had to get rid of the woman and her disruptive little dog. His project was too important to allow anyone or anything to foul it.

  As he started toward his own cabin, he saw a dusty black Sundance parked beside her cabin. The rust patches along its lower sides declared it a senior citizen, and its near-bald tires screamed for replacement. Damn it, the woman must have more guts than brains to trust an old wreck like that to get her over miles of wilderness roads. Guts or the wisdom of a dodo bird.

  ****

  The tantalizing aroma of toast, bacon, and coffee greeted him when he strode up her verandah steps twenty minutes later. Man, he was hungry! He’d been driving since 5:00 a.m., and he’d thought all he wanted to do was crawl into bed for a couple of hours. That dive into the September chill of the lake had driven away sleepiness. Hunger and a desire to learn more about Emma Prescott had replaced all other feelings.

  Better the devil you know…

  “Come in.” She put a plate of toast on a table set for two. “You’re just in time. Hi, Scout,” she greeted the dog at his heels. “I’ve got scrambled eggs for you and Bruiser.”

  Her cabin, similar to his, consisted of a common room that served as living room, dining area, and kitchen, with two bedrooms at the rear adjoined by a bath. Log walled with a big fieldstone fireplace along the right side, both cabins had all the modern amenities without losing any of their rustic charm.

  Her home got only a miniscule bit of his attention. Emma Prescott in jeans and an orange T-shirt that fitted her just right in all the proper places held ninety-nine percent of his interest. Her hair hung loose, a shoulder-length tangle of chestnut curls. He caught himself staring. Man, he’d been up here in the bush way too long to be suddenly faced with this kind of temptation—temptation he knew he had to ignore.

  “Scrambled eggs?” He snapped himself out of it.

  “Great for their coats.” She placed two bowls, one large, one small, on the floor, then watched, a smile tipping her lips, as the dogs dug into their respective containers. “Now, come, sit.” She swept out a hand to indicate a chair at the table, where two steaming cups of coffee waited.

  As he sat down, she took two plates of bacon and eggs from the oven.

  “Dig in,” she invited, placing them on the table. “Orange juice?”

  “Please.” When she came to his shoulder to pour juice into his glass, he caught a whiff of something that reminded him of a morning after a spring shower.

  Ignore it, just ignore it.

  “You haven’t told me what your job is.” She sat down opposite him and flashed a smile that seemed brighter than the sunlight beginning to glide in through the cabin windows.

  “I’m an associate professor of biology, working on a research project for the University of New Brunswick,” he said. “I’m searching for evidence of the Eastern Panther.”

  “Really?” Her forehead furrowed.

  “You have a problem with that?” He picked up a piece of crisp bacon.

  “No.” She focused on her food for a moment, then dropped her fork with a clatter and met his gaze. “Actually, that’s not true. I do have a problem with it. A very big problem, as a matter of fact.”

  “And that would be?”

  “I believe the money spent on these so-called research projects would be better used on improving the lives of human beings. For example, stopping the flow of illegal drugs, alcohol, and tobacco flooding over the US/Canadian border in this area and infecting our kids like a lethal virus.”

  “How could this be accomplished?” He spread plum jam on a piece of toast.

  “By using the money from unnecessary research projects such as yours to employ more officers to patrol the area. There are acres and acres of unmanned border in these woods, and they’re infested with criminals who couldn’t care less about the young lives they’re ruining.”

  Her voice rose, concern in every heated word.

  “Hey, just a minute.” He held up a hand. “I have to object. Finding actual scientific proof that the Eastern Panther still exists in these woods would provide important new biological information about a species long believed to be extinct.”

  “Look, there’s about as much hard evidence to support the existence of an Eastern Panther in this province as there is to prove the actualization of a sasquatch in British Columbia.” She leaned across the table toward him, eyes narrowing.

  “I beg to differ.” He picked up his cup. “There have been sightings, researchers have found scratches on tree trunks…”

  “And people have seen hairy monsters, too.”

  “Hairy monsters?” He felt a grin twitching at his mouth.

  “Okay, laugh. But if you dealt with kids every day who are having their lives destroyed by illegal substances, you might not find it so amusing.”

  “I’m sorry.” He looked over at her, impressed by her vehemence. “I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

  “Most definitely.” Her eyes flashed emerald fire.

  They finished their meal in silence.

  “Thanks for breakfast.” He stood. “Come on, Scout. I think it’s time we left.”

  “Now, there I can agree with you. I have to get myself ready for school and Bruiser for Doggie Day Care.”

  She snatched up their plates. At the dishwasher she clattered them inside with more force than necessary.

  ****

  Back at his cabin, Frasier paused on his verandah to gaze out over Loon Lake. The sun was burning off the mist, turning it to gossamer gold. One of the loons for which the lake was famous hooted its haunting call. Another chuckled a reply.

  Frasier drew a deep breath of the cool, clear air and wished he could live and work here forever. He didn’t mind the locals monikering him the Hermit of Loon Lake. Maybe that’s exactly what he was, what he wanted to be after the past turbulent years.

  He twisted his mouth in a grimace. Fat chance of that now. Suddenly there was Emma Prescott and her annoying little dog. They had to be gotten rid of.

  “Come on, Scout. Let’s go inside. We need to do some serious thinking.”

  ****

  “There’s a woman living in the cabin next door.” Frasier let the words gush over his cell phone an hour later. “Her name is Emma Prescott.”

&
nbsp; The line fell silent. Then: “When did she arrive?”

  “Within the last couple of days, while I was meeting with you in Fredericton. She said there’d been a fire at her apartment building in town and she couldn’t find another place to live with her dog. She has a Pug.”

  “Strange she couldn’t get anything closer to Carleton. I presume she has a job there?”

  “She says she’s a guidance counselor at the high school.”

  “Attractive?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll have her checked out. But you’ll have to get rid of her, regardless of what I discover. She’ll put our entire project in jeopardy.”

  “Understood. How do you suggest I go about it?”

  “You’ve always been creative. You’ll come up with something. I’ll expect to hear all about it at our meeting in Carleton tomorrow. And Frasier, one more thing.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I know you’ve been living up there for four months with very little…ah, shall we say, social life? I can appreciate how you must be feeling, but don’t get involved.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll get back to you shortly. In the meantime, remember this project won’t last forever. Once it’s done, you’ll be free to romance any young woman you fancy…provided she’s respectable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The line went dead. Frasier held the deserted phone out from his ear and stared at it. What a pickle! Under favorable conditions, having a beautiful woman like Emma Prescott as a neighbor could have been a dream come true. Under the current circumstances, it could only spell one huge black mark on his career, not to mention the end of his involvement in a project in which he had invested every ounce of physical and emotional energy.

  Scout leaned his chin on Frasier’s knee. He patted the dog absently, his gaze roving around the cabin, hoping for an inspiration.

  Ah-ha! His guitar leaning against the wall beside the fireplace brought the flash of an idea. It had been a while, but maybe, just maybe…

  ****

  That evening Frasier was sitting on his front verandah steps when Emma arrived. The warm, balmy fall twilight couldn’t have been better for his plan. When she braked to a stop, he drew a deep breath, strummed the guitar resting across his knee, and began to sing.