The Renegade (The Moorehouse Legacy #3)(12)

He went into the dining room and braced the swinging door in place so it couldn’t open.

“Libby? You in there?” he called out.

“Alex! Are you okay?” The housekeeper sounded worried.

“Grab hold of your boy, will you? I’m coming in.”

“Done.”

Alex pushed open the door and was greeted by whines of affection and a mad, impotent scampering of dog feet. While Libby held Ernest in place, Alex came over and stroked the dog into a relative calm.

“Would you like some breakfast?” the older woman asked. “I can make you some of the dry toast you like.”

He looked up. Her lovely, worn face was so hopeful, he was tempted to put in a special request.

“Actually, I—” He cleared his throat. He didn’t like being waited on, but he had a feeling this flash of energy he was sporting wasn’t going to last long. “I’d like some pancakes. With butter and syrup. And bacon. I want bacon. Coffee, too.”

God, he was hungry. For the first time in so long, he was dying for some food.

Libby’s eyes flared. “Go sit down at the table. I’ll make it right away.”

As he settled into a chair, Ernest snuggled up close, leaning against his good leg.

“Do you take sugar?” Libby asked.

The question made him realize he hadn’t asked for any coffee since he’d come to the mansion.

Hell, how long had it been since he’d had a normal breakfast? Sitting up at a table. Like a real person.

“I like it black, thanks.”

“It’ll be ready in a second. This pot’s almost finished brewing.”

While he watched the woman bustle around, he wished he could help and felt badly that all the activity was just about him.

“Hey, Libby, maybe I’ll scratch that big order,” he said. “A little cereal would be great. I don’t want you going to—”

“Alex Moorehouse, you shut your mouth. And I don’t want it open again until you’re putting a fork in it.”

He had to smile. There weren’t a lot of people who put him in his place on or off the water. Wouldn’t his crew get a kick out of the fact that one of the short-listers was a white-haired grandmother.

Libby brought the coffee over first, and Alex closed his eyes as he took the first sip. The stuff was steaming hot and strong enough to wake the dead.

In a word, divine.

When he started to sweat, he realized he was sitting in a shaft of sunlight. He peeled off the fleece and went back to work on the mug.

As he sipped and stroked Ernest’s ear, the moment sank into him with the pleasurable flush of an unexpected kind word. The dog’s head was a warm weight on his good leg. Libby’s friendly chatter about Saranac Lake’s characters was like the crackle of a cheery fire. The rhythmic hiss of a wire whisk cutting through batter reminded him of happy mornings from his childhood.

He settled back against the chair and closed his eyes again. His leg was throbbing, but it was a dull pump, not the kind of pain that made his skin ache. He took a deep breath and felt his shoulders loosen on the exhale.

“More coffee?” Libby asked gently.

He opened his lids and smiled. “Please.”

She brought over the coffeepot, refilled his mug to the brim and then hurried back to the griddle to flip over the pancakes. When the bacon slices hit the pan, he shut his eyes once more.

Hunger cut through him and he welcomed it.

Minutes later Libby set a heavy plate in front of him along with a stick of butter and a gravy boat full of syrup. He put a slice of bacon in his mouth while he lathered up the pancakes and doused them in maple heaven. Then he tore through the food.

When he put his fork down, he and Libby were both a little surprised at the clean plate. Ernest looked disappointed.

“You want more?” Libby asked.

Alex rubbed his belly. “Ah, yeah. Thanks.”

*

As a cold November wind gusted up from the lake, Cassandra put her hands on her hips and surveyed the ruins of the White Caps Bed and Breakfast. When she stepped toward the house, she heard the five people behind her move along like a small herd. Frankie and Nate, Joy, Gray and Sean had all come for the tour.

Wow, what a house this is, she thought, measuring the structure’s superb, Federal lines. Sitting regally on a bluff that jutted out into the lake, the place was a real charmer, all white clapboards and shiny black shutters. The fire damage in the back was jarring, like a bruise on the face of a beautiful woman.

“Thomas Crane was the architect, right?” she asked as she walked over to the kitchen where the destruction was the most severe.

“It was one of Crane’s last commissions,” Frankie replied.

“Do you have the original plans?”

“Fortunately, yes. The set has always been kept out in my father’s workshop so it survived the fire.”

Cassandra lifted a sheet of thick plastic and stepped through what had been the kitchen door. Even though the fire had been a month ago, the pungent stench of smoke and ash hung in the air.

“This part of the house wasn’t added on later, was it?”

“No, it’s in the plans,” Frankie said. “When our father converted the mansion into a B and B in the seventies, all he did was bring up the kitchen to restaurant code. He didn’t make any changes to the structure.”