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  “Did you talk to them about renegotiating the lease?” Gib asked.

  “He tried,” Matt said. “They use a management company now.”

  “Things were easier when we were dealing with Joe Gordon.” Their grandfather scooped a couple of sticks from the sand and tossed them into the fieldstone-ringed fire pit. “Once Joe died and his son inherited, well, you know, we haven’t seen anyone from that family in twenty years….”

  “’Course, they do live in St. Louis. Not exactly down the road,” Matt pointed out.

  Gib shook his head. Now he remembered why he so seldom came home; every time he did, it seemed like there was some new disaster to contend with. As an Associated Press photojournalist stationed in Iraq, he had enough stress in his life already. “If they’re determined to sell, the lease gives you first rights to buy, doesn’t it?”

  “What it gives us,” his grandfather said, “is the right to match any bona fide offer they get.”

  Gib felt himself relax. “You’re okay, then. Nothing to panic about since they haven’t even officially put it up for—” Something in his grandfather’s expression sent a chill through him. “Tell me they don’t already have an offer.”

  His grandfather grimaced, and for the second time, Gib thought to himself that the man was getting old. Working at the resort kept him reasonably trim, but there were lines around his deep blue eyes that had never been there before.

  “Oh, hell! Does this whole thing have to be a game of twenty questions? They got an offer without even listing the property? With six months left on the lease?”

  His grandfather nodded. “Some condo developer contacted them. Probably figured it would take six months, anyway, to get all the building plans drawn and approved.”

  “He gets all his ducks in a row now, then as soon as the lease expires, he’s ready to go,” Matt said.

  “How much time do we have to match the offer?”

  His grandfather pressed his lips together. “The lease gives us thirty days but—”

  “A month!”

  “Actually, there’s only twenty-three days left,” Matt said.

  “Dammit! Did you talk to the bank about getting a loan?”

  A long silence greeted his question. He glanced between his brother and grandfather. “Well?”

  His grandfather cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, we met with them. They turned us down flat. Gib, we’re in trouble. If we can’t find a way to buy the land…”

  Why did he ever come home? “How’s business been?”

  “Not what it used to be, that’s for sure,” Matt said.

  “What he means is the old days, when we were full every week all summer, they’re gone.” His grandfather’s shoulders sagged. “I’m thinking a fella may have to pick up some side business to stay afloat.”

  “Come on!” Gib faced his grandfather. “How many times do I have to tell you? You’ve gotta stop that. You can’t be making book out of the resort—”

  “I did quit. But if we need the money—”

  “Yeah, well, you won’t need the money if you get busted and sent to jail.”

  “Gib, I only do the small-potatoes stuff—some baseball pools, the local guys, nothing fancy. Your grandmother—”

  “Don’t try to pretend Grandma ever approved of this. You start bookmaking again and sooner or later you’ll get caught and then lose the resort whether you buy the land or not.” He looked at his brother. “How can you let him even consider this?”

  Matt rolled his eyes. “You think he listens to me?”

  “Why don’t you threaten to report him or something? Or…threaten to tell Grandma. That would do it—”

  “That would not do it,” his grandfather said. “It wouldn’t make any difference. If it comes to it, I’ll do what I have to, to keep this place in our family’s name.”

  The wind shifted and blew a cooler breeze off the lake. Like an omen, Gib thought to himself. And not a good one. He gritted his teeth together and mentally embraced a picture of what he’d hoped to find once he got home—a relaxing, peaceful environment where he could recuperate from the shrapnel injury he got in Iraq. A chance to purge the memories—

  “Kind of a pointless discussion right now, considering the bigger problem,” Matt said.

  “He’s right, Gib. We need to find some money—big money.”

  Gib went out onto the pier, squinted into the bright afternoon sun as he looked out over the lake, its surface no longer smooth but marred by ripples from the light wind. If they lost the resort, his grandparents and brother had nowhere to live, no way to earn a living. He had no doubt Matt would land on his feet, but his grandparents? They were too old to start over. He turned. “What exactly did the bank say when you met with them? Why’d they say no? I heard Bill Campbell got promoted to vice president in charge of lending a while ago. You should have talked directly to him.”

  When neither replied, he gazed past them in frustration, up the hill to the main lodge, a large two-story stone-and-log building that was almost a hundred years old. Things were looking a bit neglected and bookings were down; he had more than a sneaking suspicion why they couldn’t get the loan.

  A blue midsize car bounced along the gravel road and jerked to a stop in front of the lodge. The car’s front doors opened and two young women got out. They looked around for a moment, then went up the steps, stopping briefly to pet the family’s golden retriever, Rascal, on the veranda. Hopefully these were paying customers and not bill collectors. “Let me guess. The resort is a poor risk because you don’t have enough bookings and you don’t have enough bookings because the place is getting run-down.”

  Matt winced and crossed the beach to the water’s edge. “Uh, something like that.”

  “Something,” his grandfather echoed.

  “Something? What else is there?” Gib retraced his steps down the pier and went to stand beside his brother. The lake lapped at the sand inches from their feet. “They’d rather some developer get the land and put in condos? Like they did on Elk Trail Lake? Like they seem to be doing with all these old resorts?”

  Neither answered him.

  “They would? Bill actually said—”

  “Calm down.” Matt shoved his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts and dug the toe of his running shoe into the sand. “He doesn’t want to see condos here. He’d rather see our resort—” Matt slowly blew out his breath. “The problem is, they don’t think Grampa or I—Well, you know how business has fallen off. They want some guarantee—”

  Gib felt his stomach churn. He was almost afraid to ask. “Guarantee of what?”

  “That we’ll get it in the black again.”

  “How are you supposed to do that in twenty-three days?”

  “They want us to hire a manager. Thing is, we can’t afford—”

  Gib waved an arm in front of himself, as much to stop his brother from saying any more as to allow himself to fully focus on their reality. “What are you going to do?” He didn’t even want to consider what options might be available. He’d come home to recuperate—not to stay. Running this resort had never been in his plans.

  Matt shrugged. “I called the Wisconsin Getaway Guide and reminded them we haven’t been reviewed in years. Some publicity might help with bookings.”

  “Hell, Matt, the last time we were in there had to be ten years ago,” Gib said. “And if I remember right, we only got three stars then. Now we’d probably only get two. Plus, it’ll never be out in time.”

  Silence settled over them.

  “We did okay when you were working here,” his grandfather finally said.

  No. He’d done his time. He didn’t want to do it again. He’d become a freelance photographer to get away, see the world. He had another life, a career. And even though all he wanted to see for the next month was the view of a blue sky from a hammock, he knew he’d eventually take off again, the open road calling him like a siren’s song. He slapped a hand against his thigh. “I don’t get th
is manager thing. Grampa, you’ve been running this place for years. And, Matt, you’ve been working here practically since you were two.”

  “Bookings are way off the past couple of years,” his grandfather said. “Bill thinks new blood would bring new ideas.”

  Gib turned to Matt. “I thought the plan was for you to major in hotel management at the community college during the winters,” he said accusingly. “Have you taken any courses yet?”

  Matt winced.

  “None?” This so fit his brother’s standard operating behavior. “Maybe if you’d ever get off the ski hill and put some time in around here…People plan their summer vacations when the snow is flying.” He knew his irritation was showing. “What a great welcome home. Wow, it’s really nice to walk into an ambush.”

  “It’s not an ambush,” his grandfather said.

  “Yeah? Then why didn’t you call me with this news a week ago?”

  His grandfather glanced away. “We didn’t want to burden you.”

  “Thought it would be easier to talk in person,” Matt said.

  “And harder for me to say no?”

  “We just thought we’d ask,” his grandfather said quietly. “No harm intended. Knew you’d be home for a while and thought you might be able to help.”

  Gib picked a stone from the sand and hurled it sidearm out onto the lake. It hit the water and droplets scattered outward—like shrapnel. “I’m sorry about what’s going on. I don’t want you to lose the resort. But what do you want me to do? And in three weeks’ time?” He let another stone fly out over the water. “Why don’t you call the Gordons and explain the situation. Tell them that no matter what the lease says, thirty days isn’t exactly a considerate amount of notice after one hundred years of working together.”

  “You can tell them yourself,” his grandfather said. “Their daughter, Elizabeth Gordon, is checking in today.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  HEARING HER NAME, IZZY GRABBED Shelly by the arm and froze inside the line of trees at the edge of the beach. She stared at the brown-haired man who had just been disparaging her family.

  “What does she want?” he asked, each word laced with bitterness. “Coming to do Daddy’s dirty work? Check out the property to make sure they get every penny they can for it?”

  He started toward the woods where Izzy and Shelly were hidden. It was clear he didn’t have much use for her, and, frankly, if first impressions mattered for anything, she didn’t like him much, either. Her palms began to sweat. Nearly six feet tall, broad shoulders, muscled arms, short dark brown hair…and no smile welcoming them to White Bear Lodge. His faded navy blue T-shirt and khaki shorts were wrinkled as if they’d spent months jammed in the bottom of a duffel bag. A jagged red scar crisscrossed his left knee. He looked like the kind of man who did what he wanted, took what he wanted, just exactly whenever he wanted.

  Exactly the kind of man she’d never wanted.

  Her heart began to pound.

  “When she checks in, give Elizabeth Gordon a personal message for me,” the man tossed over his shoulder. Heat rolled through her belly at the way her name slipped over his tongue. “Tell her to take the land and shove it up her rich little ass.”

  She caught her breath, shocked at the vehemence in his tone. He crossed the sand, favoring his left leg, then stopped the moment he spotted the two of them. He stared at Izzy and she stared back, speechless, caught in the fire of his gray-blue eyes.

  After a strained moment, Shelly jumped into the void. “No one is at the main lodge,” she said. “Do you work here?”

  He narrowed his eyes as though ready to bite out hell, no, then jerked a thumb backward toward the two men still standing at the water’s edge. “Talk to them.” He stalked onto the path leading back to the main lodge and disappeared into the woods.

  Izzy swallowed hard and tried to calm her racing pulse, suddenly dreading having to identify herself to this family. All she wanted to do was make a documentary, not get into a war while she was here.

  Shelly stepped toward the older gentleman, hand outstretched. “We don’t have a reservation, but thought we’d swing by, anyway. Check to see if there’s a chance you have any cottages open for the next week.”

  Izzy tried to keep her shock from registering on her face. They had a reservation; she’d made it herself five minutes after she received the letter telling them their proposal was one of the ten finalists in the Americana Documentary Film Contest.

  The man’s tanned face creased with his smile. “Welcome to White Bear Lodge. I’m Pete Murphy, the owner. This is my grandson Matt. And, yes, we do have an opening. For a week?”

  “Maybe even two,” Shelly said. “We’re making a documentary.”

  “You’re in the movie business?” Matt asked.

  Shelly dipped her head. “Izzy’s a director and I am—”

  “The star,” Izzy said, relieved to have finally found her voice.

  “Well, that’s a first for us here,” Pete said. “Let’s go on up and get you checked in.”

  Twenty minutes later, after a brief conversation about the topic of their movie, they’d completed the paperwork and put the charges on Shelly’s MasterCard. Back in the car, Izzy finally let herself relax. “Jeez, Shelly, thanks.”

  “For what?” Shelly put the car into gear and turned onto the main drive in search of the side road leading to their cottage. “Saving you from having your identity discovered by that gorgeous guy?”

  “Obnoxious is the word I would use.”

  “I figured there was no reason he had to know who you were. Not with that attitude. The land sale doesn’t have anything to do with you. Who knows how he might try to disrupt our plans if he knew your parents owned the land.”

  The car bounced through a row of potholes on the gravel drive and Izzy clutched the armrest in one hand and the keys to the cottage in the other. “As soon as we get into our cabin, I’ll use the cell phone to cancel our reservation. Thank goodness I never mentioned the movie when I called the first time.” She peered out the window and pointed at a narrow dirt road nearly hidden in the woods. “There it is!”

  Shelly spun the steering wheel to the left. The force rammed Izzy against the passenger door, and Shelly turned toward her. “Sorry.”

  “Ack!” Izzy screeched, and pointed at the small, log-sided cottage looming in their path.

  Shelly whipped her attention forward and slammed on the brakes. The car jerked to a stop. “Jeez, sorry. The cabin came out of nowhere.”

  Izzy dropped her head against the headrest. “Why is my heart beating faster here in the Northwoods of Wisconsin than it ever has in the worst rush hour traffic St. Louis has to offer?”

  “Must be the fresh pine air. Or, maybe that guy on the beach. You have to admit he was something to behold.”

  Izzy huffed. “The one with so many nice things to say about me?”

  “What do you expect?” Shelly opened her door and stepped outside. “Your parents are about to sell the land out from under them. Probably leave the family homeless, with no way to make a living. By this time next year, the local news stations will be running stories about how the Murphys are living in cardboard boxes on the streets. One of whom is drop-dead gorgeous and cranky because of a sore leg that probably needs some tender loving care.” She waggled her fingers. “From me.”

  Izzy climbed out of the car. “Breathe. And focus.”

  “I am focused. On B.B. Beautiful Boy.” Shelly’s gaze landed on the rustic log cottage and her mouth dropped. “Oh, man, check this place out. It’s gross. When did you say you were here last?”

  Izzy frowned. Cobwebs and dirty windows were not enough to hide the fact that the trim needed a fresh coat of paint and the log exterior needed cleaning. “I was seven or eight. It was the only time I was ever here—right after my grandfather died and my dad inherited the land.” She focused her attention on the surrounding landscape. “It may not be obvious to you, but rustic cabins in the woods aren’t my pa
rents’ thing.”

  “It’s obvious. Thank goodness the main lodge seems to be in reasonable shape or we’d have to change our title to The Demise of Gangster Getaways in the Northwoods of Wisconsin.”

  Izzy grabbed two suitcases from the trunk of the car, pushed open the door to the cabin and cringed at the sight. The interior was like a step back in time.

  Shelly followed her inside, carefully setting the video-camera case on the chrome-legged, Formica-topped kitchen table. She lowered herself onto the red-vinyl seat of one of the matching chrome chairs. “They’ve updated some. I’d say this is more like the sixties.”

  “Good thing we’re not here for the ambience…so to speak.” Izzy sat on the worn brown couch and felt a loose spring poking her in the rear. Doubt began to cloud her optimism. This place sure didn’t look like a vacation getaway for gangsters flush with illegal cash.

  “So…now what?” Shelly asked.

  Izzy blinked. Now what, indeed? The closest she’d come to making a movie since her college film class six years ago was when she helped out in the video-editing suite at the station. Her stomach took a nervous flop. It had seemed like a brilliant idea—come out to Wisconsin, to the land her family had owned for a hundred years, to the resort that was reputed to have been a summer destination of Prohibition-era Chicago gangsters—and make a documentary. Still photos and maps juxtaposed with new live footage, old letters and newspaper articles dramatically read aloud, short interviews with people who had stories to tell of that time and, beneath everything, the music of the twenties and thirties to evoke the atmosphere of the era. Nothing to it. Just like Ken Burns.

  Or not. Ken had hours and hours to tell his story—they would have six minutes. Ken had a full staff, multiple cameras and tons of money. They had her, Shelly, one camera and a few bucks in savings. Her stomach clutched in panic. What had she been thinking?

  “I can feel it now,” Shelly said. “First place in the Americana Documentary Film Contest. And our future all but secured in the film industry.”