Snowfire

by Dana James

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

When Beth married glaciologist Allan Bryce she believed nothing would ever come between them. But something did ? another wife. Without waiting for explanations Beth fled, burying herself in work and determined to replace her shattered memories of their love with award-winning photographs. Two years on, meeting unexpectedly on an expedition in Iceland, Beth can't understand why his eyes are as cold as the landscape and his fury so bitter ? for she had done nothing wrong.

Release date: July 18, 2013

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 162

Sample

Chapter One

Beth grasped the aluminium case containing her precious camera equipment in one hand and picked up her suitcase in the other.

Pausing a moment as the Icelandair shuttle took off again from Akureyri for Reykjavik, she looked up at the western slopes of the snow-capped mountain ridge rising majestically behind the town which jutted like a stubby finger into the fjord.

The snow glittered like sugar frosting on an enormous cake, pale gold in the evening sun. It would still be shining at midnight. Should she take just one more shot?

Resisting the impulse, Beth curbed a smile. She could already hear Oliver’s weary complaint. ‘Not another sunset, Beth.’

Oliver was a marvellous agent who had obtained some terrific assignments for her. But they frequently clashed over the kind of images clients wanted for their travel brochures, press releases, guidebooks, and nature calendars.

Oliver favoured what he called practical pictures of familiar subjects. “Play it safe” was his motto: use close-ups of flowers and animals, scenes of fishing boats in harbours, modern hotels, and be sure to show the swimming pool.

But Beth preferred trying to capture the mood of a place: morning mist over a mirror-smooth lake, the curve of a wave crashing onto shingle, cloud effects, sand shapes at ebb tide, smooth or jagged rocks, sun and shadows.

Though discussions were often heated, both recognised the need for compromise. So Oliver was able to keep Beth supplied with work, while she restricted her more atmospheric shots to her private portfolio. She never travelled anywhere without the battered brown zip-up case containing what she considered her best work; photographs she had taken in her own time and at her own expense.

For some she had waited many hours to get exactly the right light. Others had necessitated lying or crouching, stiff and cramped, until a particular bird or animal had lost its shyness and ignored her.

These shots, she knew, revealed far more artistry and talent than anything she had ever done for Oliver and his clients. One day she would prove her true worth as a photographer. She was young yet, only 25. In the meantime she would do her best within the limits she had been set.

No one had it all. She thought of Hofi and Gunnar, the friends she was going to stay with. Their marriage was rock-solid. Gunnar’s knowledge of this 40,000 square mile island and his ability as a mechanic had made him much sought after by specialist tour operators and expedition planners. With Hofi’s organisational skills and gift of being able to conjure up a hot, nourishing meal within minutes at any time of day or night, they made a formidable team. Their business was thriving. Yet what they longed for most, a child, had so far eluded them.

As for herself, she had an absorbing and satisfying career, and a growing reputation. She ate, drank, and slept work. There wasn’t a moment to spare. No time even to contemplate marriage or children. She made quite sure of that.

Beth squared her shoulders and took a firmer grip on her case. Deliberately turning her thoughts outward, she marvelled at the sharp clarity of the air. Almost all the heat for industry and domestic use was obtained from hot springs and superheated steam venting from the volcanoes that dotted the country. So there was no smoke from coal or peat fires to pollute the pristine atmosphere.

However, though it was the beginning of July, this northern capital of Iceland lay just below the Arctic Circle and the rising wind had a keen edge to it. Beth was glad of her peach-coloured padded jacket.

She had just spent a week in the south and each day this strange land of contrasts and surprises had offered something new and unexpected for her to capture on camera. So much so that, despite bringing twice as much film as she had intended to use, it had nearly all gone.

She walked briskly out of the little airport and looked round for a taxi. A noisy little Fiat squealed to a halt a few yards away. The door flew open and statuesque woman wearing a thick woollen sweater with the traditional design of grey, black, and cream, unfolded long legs in red trousers and hurried towards Beth, arms outstretched as she beamed a welcome. Her yellow-gold hair swung in a heavy braid over one shoulder.

‘Hofi!’ Beth exclaimed in surprise and delight. ‘I didn’t expect you to come and pick me up. I told you on the phone I’d get a taxi.’

‘Now there is no need,’ Hofi replied in her gentle, sing-song voice. Taking Beth’s suitcase, she heaved it into the back of the car. ‘Did you use up all your memory cards?’

Beth didn’t reply, pulling a wry face.

‘I knew it.’ Hofi chuckled. ‘Did I not warn you? We will stop and get more.’

Beth climbed in beside her. ‘There can’t be anything left I haven’t photographed,’ she protested. ‘Anyway, they are hideously expensive here. Besides, from now I’m supposed to be on holiday so I really don’t think –’

‘Believe me,’ Hofi promised as she started the car, ‘you will need more.’

The noisy engine made conversation almost impossible, so after ascertaining that Gunnar was well and business was fine, Beth was content to look out of the window at the flat pasture land, the outer fields dotted with cattle, sheep, and hardy little Icelandic horses, a vivid contrast to the bare brown rock and scree slopes of the mountains behind.

After a detour to pick up the cards and an additional cleaning kit, the combined cost of which had her doing frantic mental calculations as she handed over what seemed to be an awful lot of krona, they eventually arrived at the cream-painted house with its bright red roof.

Alongside, a Land Rover was parked in front of a building that served as workshop, garage, and store. Hofi switched off the engine. But as Beth started to get out, Hofi placed a restraining hand on her arm.

‘When must you return to London?’

Beth shrugged. ‘I was going at the end of the week. Three days with you will give me a chance to unwind and catch up on all your news. I know this is your busy season and I don’t want to be in the way or outstay my welcome.’

‘That is not possible.’ Hofi smiled at her. ‘You were with us only a few days last time. And this trip you have already been in Iceland a week before you come to see us. I know –’ Hofi cut her off, pressing her arm as Beth started to explain. ‘But we love to have you here. I do not ask because I want you to go. If there is no work waiting for you, I think you will wish to stay. But if you do stay there will be no time for relaxing, or holiday.’

Beth stared at her friend, noting the gleam of excitement in her eyes. ‘Hofi, what are you talking about?’

‘An expedition.’ Hofi’s attempt to be casual didn’t quite come off. ‘Across the lava fields and desert of the interior.’ She paused, knowing she had Beth’s complete attention. ‘To the hot springs and ice caves beneath the Vatnajokull glacier,’ she finished in quiet triumph.

‘What?’ Beth gasped. ‘But I didn’t think tourists were allowed –’

‘This is not a trip for tourists,’ Hofi explained. ‘It is a scientific expedition. All the permits are arranged. We are taking geologists out to join the main party already on Vatnajokull.’

‘What’s happening on the glacier?’ Beth could hardly contain all the questions clamouring to be asked. ‘What are they doing up there?’

‘They are waiting for a glacier burst. It is five years since the last bad one, and it seems they have much equipment on the icecap which tells them that the pressure of water melted by the Grimsvoten volcano is now so high that a burst could occur very soon.’

Beth stared blindly ahead.

‘There will be seven in the party,’ Hofi went on. ‘Eight if you will join us. I have suggested to Mr Brennan, who is funding this part of the expedition, that you could be the party’s official photographer. He said he would think it over. But I told him that in any case I would need some help with the cooking. Beth, you must come.’

Beth flinched, quickly turning her head away. Assistant cook and photographer. The pain was still as raw and fierce as it had been almost two years ago.

Working in Switzerland on a fashion shoot for skiwear, she had desperately wanted some shots of the Rhone glacier but had been unable to persuade anyone to take her.

Thanks to an untimely tumble on the nursery slopes that resulted in a broken ankle for the assistant cook from a geological survey team, she had managed to get herself accepted in his place. She had got her pictures. And she had met Allan.

Allan Bryce, the first, the only man she had ever loved. The man she had married, except it had not been a marriage at all; the man who had broken her heart and destroyed her trust. Had it not been for her work …

‘Beth?’ Hofi sounded puzzled and concerned.

Shaking off the unexpected, pain-filled memory, Beth stretched her mouth into a smile. ‘Just try and keep me away.’

As she struggled to keep a flood of other memories at bay, it did not occur to Beth to wonder why Hofi, who had cooked single-handed for parties of ten or more, should need an assistant for an expedition of eight.

Gradually her smile became less strained, more genuine, as reality sank in. ‘Hofi, this is fantastic. It’s the chance of a lifetime.’

‘Yes,’ Hofi said with sudden seriousness, ‘and you must not waste it, Beth.’

Beth dived out of the car and reached into the back for her cases, and leather shoulder bag. ‘No chance of that.’ She grinned over her shoulder. ‘I’ll convince this Mr Brennan he can’t possibly manage without me. You’re a wonderful friend, Hofi.’

‘I hope so,’ Hofi murmured as she led the way into the house.

The smell of fresh coffee made Beth’s mouth water, reminding her she had not eaten for almost six hours.

Hofi dropped Beth’s suitcase at the bottom of the wide, open-plan staircase. ‘Come and meet the others before I show you to your room.’

Beth’s eyes widened. ‘They’re all staying here?’

Hofi grinned. ‘Four weeks ago, we took a party of birdwatchers to Myvatn. There were ten of them and I had to give them supper and put them all up the night before we left. In a way, it’s easier. We are sure everyone has arrived and we can get them moving early. They don’t realise how important it is in Iceland to start any journey, even short ones, in the morning, to allow for sudden changes in river conditions or the weather. At least this time we did not have to give up our room. But –’ she looked apologetic ‘– I’m afraid you’ll have to share. Do you mind?’

Beth smothered her dismay. ‘Of course not. That’s all part of an expedition.’ Yet she could not help wishing she had had just one night of complete relaxation. The past week had been hectic, involving a lot of travel and very long hours. And the unexpected reminders of Allan had been deeply unsettling. At least there was no chance of their paths crossing here. According to Natural World magazine, Dr Allan Bryce was on the Hubbard glacier in Alaska. She had bought the magazine because it contained several of her own shots of alpine flowers growing through snow. Seeing his name had caused a peculiar wrenching sensation in her stomach. She would learn to overcome it, and control her reactions. She had to. She slammed a mental door on all thoughts of Allan. This was the chance of a lifetime. Sharing a room was a small price to pay.

‘I expect we’ll be two to a tent as well.’

Hofi nodded, her relief obvious. ‘I knew you would understand. I had some difficulty explaining it to Miss Brennan. She did not seem to understand that there is no room in the Land Rover for anything but essentials, and that to have a tent each was not possible.’

Beth shook her head. ‘I don’t know how you hang on to your patience.’

Hofi shrugged. ‘People are very understanding – usually. But sometimes it takes a while.’ They exchanged a knowing grin. Then she opened the door.

After the crushing anonymity of hotel rooms, the welcoming warmth and familiarity were like a homecoming for Beth. One brief glance told her that the mellow wood, comfortable armchairs and sofas, glowing wall-lights, and heavy-weave curtains were all just as she remembered.

The two men and a woman sitting in one corner of the large, low-beamed room had stopped their conversation and were viewing Beth with a mixture of interest and curiosity.

Hofi began, ‘This is Beth –’

‘Farrell,’ Beth said quickly. She had told Hofi about reverting to her maiden name when she was here last time. But she didn’t want any mistakes. Ridiculous it might be, but even hearing Allan’s name hurt.

A short, stocky man of about 60 with grizzled hair and shaggy eyebrows hauled himself out of the depths of a leather armchair and swept Beth with an appraising stare.

‘I guess you must be this here photographer Mizz Petursson told us about.’

Beth glanced uncertainly at Hofi. ‘Miss Petursson?’

Hofi bit her lip, masking a smile. ‘He means me,’ she whispered. She turned to the man. ‘I am Hofi, Mr Brennan. In Iceland, women do not take their husband’s name when they marry.’

A frown deepened the furrows on his lined forehead. ‘Godammit, more of that feminist bull –’

‘Eugene!’ From a corner of the brightly cushioned sofa, a plump woman somewhere in her 50s, with strawberry-rinsed hair lacquered into a fluffy meringue, rolled her eyes at Beth and Hofi. ‘My husband has a short fuse regarding certain matters.’ She added in a whisper, ‘He blames our daughter’s second divorce on the equal rights campaigners. Though as Gaynor never had a job –’

‘Damn right I do,’ Eugene Brennan grunted.

‘He also tends to forget that other people are not always quite as –’ she paused delicately ‘– blunt as he is. Now, Eugene,’ she scolded, though her soft drawl was patient and good-humoured, ‘you just mind your language.’ She smiled up at Beth, ‘I’m Lucille Brennan.’ Switching her gaze to Hofi, she said, ‘Tell me, dear, why don’t you use your husband’s name? I mean, it’s not rude, or funny, or unpronounceable. You should hear some of the ones we have back home. I think Petursson is a real nice name.’

‘Thank you.’ Hofi was clearly touched by the woman’s transparent niceness. ‘I like it too. But here we do not have the family names. Petursson means simply son of Petur. A man’s last name comes from his father’s first name. My husband’s father is called Ami Jonsson.’

‘So he’s the son of Jon?’ Lucille ventured. ‘Is it the same for women?’

Hofi nodded. ‘I am Hofi Karlsdottir, the daughter of Karl. We address each other by our first names. That has been our custom since ancient times. It is not something new.’

‘OK.’ Eugene threw up his hands in surrender. ‘If that’s the way you do things here …’ He shrugged. But it was obvious to Beth, as she caught Hofi’s eye, that he didn’t really approve.

‘Mr Brennan is from Texas,’ Hofi said to Beth.

‘Guess you didn’t need tellin’, did you, girl?’

Beth met the gimlet eyes almost hidden beneath untidy brows and realised at once there was far more to Eugene Brennan than his brash outspokenness and colourful outfit of red plaid shirt, blue and yellow golf sweater, and navy tartan trousers suggested. ‘What else do you do?’ he demanded.

Beth wasn’t sure what he meant. ‘Besides what?’

‘Besides takin’ snapshots.’

‘Nothing, Mr Brennan,’ Beth replied, coolly polite. ‘Photography is my … profession.’ She had nearly said my life.

‘Do you make a lot of money?’

She managed to hide her shock. He certainly did go straight to the point. Beth met his gaze levelly. ‘I get by, Mr Brennan.’

‘Are you good at it?’

‘I’m better than good,’ she replied quietly.

Eugene Brennan’s eyes sharpened. There was a moment’s silence. ‘Just need the chance to prove it, eh?’ She nodded and he stuck out his hand. ‘Welcome aboard, girl.’ His handshake was dry and firm. ‘I started off in cattle, played the market and made a few bucks, now I c. . .