Welcome to Paradise by Carol Grace Read Free Book Online Page B

It was her hammock and the stove. Thank heavens. Even if she didn't get back to pick up the rest of the stuff tonight, she'd at least have a hot meal and a good night's sleep. And after a hot meal and a good night's sleep, she could do anything. Without anyone's help, she thought smugly.
    From the supply of freeze-dried food in her suitcase, she chose turkey tetrazzini, added spring water, lit the stove and sat cross-legged on the ground in front of it. When it was hot she ate every reconstituted noodle and every shred of turkey, then washed it down with cold mountain spring water. Her very own water, from her very own spring. She sighed with contentment, satisfied with her self-sufficiency.
    She wished Zeb Bowie could see her now. He'd see how well she fit into the Rocky Mountain lifestyle. So she'd ordered the wrong drink at the bar and maybe she had said the wrong thing to the bartender. That didn't mean she didn't belong there. She belonged there as much as anyone. Maybe more than anyone. Because her great-grandfather was a pioneer, and she'd inherited his spirit.
    Filled with turkey tetrazzini and a new confidence, she unwrapped her new hammock and tied it between two trees. It was made of strong canvas and she was very tired. After pulling on an extra sweatshirt she rolled into the hammock. Her stomach, full of spring water and freeze-dried turkey, lurched as she swung between the trees. If she hadn't known she was landlocked, she would have sworn she was seasick. She threw one leg over the edge of the hammock and dug her toe into the ground to stop its movement. Then, ever so carefully, she lifted her leg and tucked it back. The breeze picked up and she was swinging back and forth again. She moaned and buried her face in the stiff canvas and closed her eyes.
    The wind blew out of the west and tossed her from side to side. Tiny rain drops began to fall gently on the back of her head and her shoulders. Soon her whole body was wet. She rolled out of the hammock.
    “All right, I give up,” she muttered and shuffled back to the bathhouse for the second straight night. Only this time she didn't gaze up at the stars through the slats above her head, she stared at the rain that splatted intermittently against her forehead like a Chinese torture. Finally, somehow, she drifted off into a damp, uncomfortable sleep.
    Zeb was uncomfortable, too. Not that he was damp. He was warm and dry on the second floor of the old house as he listened to the rain on the shake roof. But he couldn't help thinking of those cardboard boxes stacked on the side of the road—and the woman who'd left them there. The woman who'd stomped away without a backward glance, with a huge box in her arms, a box she could barely see over. He wondered how she made it back without stumbling in those flimsy sandals. Even if she had, the rest of the boxes and bags must still be there. There was no way she could have carried them all the way back to the springs. So right now the cardboard was probably disintegrating into pulp, leaving her new survival equipment exposed to the elements.
    Not to mention her groceries, which were turning to mush. The twenty-five-pound bag of flour would be paste by now. The sugar would be dissolving into syrup and running off like snow melt. He should be happy about that. Without food she couldn't survive. She'd have to leave. The very thought should have made him smile. But it didn't.
    He stood at the window in his boxer shorts and stared out at the rain. He wanted her to leave. There was no doubt in his mind that she was destined to fail. Eventually. Because he knew something about failure. And he knew that it was okay to fail if you'd done your damnedest to succeed. She hadn't had a chance to do that yet.
    There was nothing he wanted more than to see her walking back down the trail from where she came, in her silk shirt and suede boots. But not without a go at it. Not without trying. Why not give her a fighting chance? Would it be