Wolfe Wedding by Joan Hohl

she repeated in sheer disbelief. “But you just a moment ago told me I can’t go back to Denver.”
    He shook his head. “I meant that you can’t go back to your apartment.”
    “I don’t want to shock you,” she said with sweet reason, “but my apartment is in Denver.”
    “Very funny.” He grimaced. “But you know what I mean. I won’t allow you to stay there alone.Is there a friend you could stay with for a while? Maybe Barbara?”
    “No.” Sandra gave a quick, sharp shake of her head, deciding she had had enough. Allow her, indeed! Who did he think he was, her keeper? “Listen carefully, Cameron,” she said distinctly. “I am not going anywhere. I am staying right here until I’m damn good and ready to leave. Now, have you got that?”
    “Dammit, woman!”
    “Stuff it, Wolfe,” she retorted, turning to peer into the oven. “And I told you not to call me ‘woman.’“
    He was quiet while she spooned broth over the meat and vegetables. Ominously quiet, she thought, surprised that she didn’t detect the scent of brimstone emanating from him. But the only scent assailing her nostrils was the mouth-watering aroma of roasting meat and vegetables wafting from the oven. When she slid the pan back on the rack, then shut the door, he heaved a sigh that held the unmistakable sound of defeat—if only in this round of their ongoing argument.
    “How long until dinner is ready?” he asked, changing the subject. He inhaled, drawing in the tantalizing smell. “Do I have time to clean up?”
    “Yes,” she replied, striving for a neutral tone, grateful for the cessation of hostilities, however brief. “I figure it’ll be another fifteen, twenty minutes.”She shrugged. “Besides, it’ll keep in a warm oven. Go have your shower.”
    “Right.” Cameron took two steps, then paused to slant a faint but conciliatory smile at her. “How about breaking out the last bottle of cabernet? I think we both could do with a glass with dinner.”
    “All right,” she agreed without hesitation, tentatively returning his smile.
    He didn’t move for a second, just stood there, staring at her. Then he nodded and strode from the room, leaving her to ponder on what he might be thinking.
    Speculation ran swift and rife through her head. All sorts of unpalatable ideas came to mind.
    It was now dark, heralding the approach of nighttime—bedtime. Was Cameron perhaps calculating his chances of later sharing the bed with her? Was he, by softening his voice and attitude, not to mention his request for wine, hoping to soften her, undermine her determination to remain steadfast to her principles?
    Sandra loved Cameron. Although at this point in their relationship she was not prepared to admit that to him, she accepted it within her own mind and being. But loving did not blind her to the facts. She had been blessed by the sheer circumstance of birth with active intelligence, and expertly educated to dispassionately examine the facts of any matter or situation.
    And so, by her very nature, she could not ignore or dismiss what she perceived as the facts in relation to her present circumstances.
    The very fact that Sandra was now questioning Cameron’s motives was telling, in and of itself. And what it was telling her was that she harbored grave doubts about placing her trust in him, and her heart with him.
    This was a fact that did not bode well for any sort of meaningful relationship between them.
    Accepting this fact was difficult for Sandra, perhaps the most difficult thing she had ever had to do. But there was no getting around it—although on a purely emotional level she longed to circumvent it.
    No. Shaking her head, as if to free it of the doubts assailing her mind, she moved to busy herself setting the table for dinner.
    Her dodging maneuvers were an abject failure; the doubts and questions persisted, stabbing into her mind, and thus her heart, with unrelenting reason.
    Sandra had been interested in Cameron in a personal way