Free Wolfe Wedding by Joan Hohl

onto her back, she stared into middle distance, as if expecting an answer to magically materialize, written in bold letters against the darkness by a fiery finger of illumination.
    And, to a certain extent, her expectations were realized. Dawn came to Sandra’s consciousness hours before it grayed the eastern horizon.
    Heaving a tired sigh, she bravely faced the truth: Of course she had reacted immaturely, simply becauseshe had reacted emotionally instead of intellectually.
    Women in love were known to do that occasionally—or so Sandra had always heard.
    It was a bit of a shock. Sandra had never considered herself one of the typically portrayed helplessly emotion-driven females.
    Love did really strange things to people—Sandra had heard that maxim more than once, as well.
    And here she was, flat on her back in bed, staring into the darkness of the predawn house, vigorously engaged in an argument with herself.
    Strange indeed.
    The really hard-to-take part was, she was losing the damn argument!
    Having always judged herself a thoughtful and rational being, capable of stepping around emotions to examine the cold, hard facts, both in her private and professional life, Sandra now felt challenged to live up to her own intellectual capabilities.
    So then, had she reacted immaturely to Cameron’s marching orders?
    Of course she had.
    Once she’d admitted the obvious, the emotional trigger was easily identified. In point of fact, Sandra acknowledged, she loved Cameron more than she valued her own physical safety and well-being.
    But, naturally, she couldn’t tell him that, Sandra realized with a sinking sensation. She very much feared that, should Cameron sense even a hint of her true feelings for him, he’d back away in an instant. He hadn’t been tagged the Lone Wolfe by his contemporaries without reason. In a nutshell, despite the occasional indulgence of the senses, he preferred being alone.
    By the time a weak and sickly light had somewhat brightened the room, Sandra had resolved her inner conflict. In essence, she would continue as she had begun, even if that meant maintaining to Cameron what he perceived as her position of immaturity and feminist militancy.
    Resigned to the role, she pushed back the covers and dragged her tired body from the bed. She had little choice but to maintain her position, she reasoned. Because there was no way in hell she’d allow him to remove her to a safe place, then return to face the danger alone—even though he was trained and paid to do precisely that. Besides, there would very likely be the nearest thing to a platoon of law officers swarming around the cabin.
    A woman’s got to do what a woman’s got to do. A wry smile flickered over her lips as Sandra repeated the catchphrase to herself.
    Her smile fading, she pulled on her robe and pulled tight the belt around her waist, literallygirding herself to approach the Lone Wolfe in the living room.
    He wasn’t there. Sandra found Cameron in the kitchen, sitting at the table, hunched over the cup of steaming coffee cradled in his hands.
    “Good morning,” she said, wincing at the tone she had deliberately hardened to conceal her trepidation.
    “Oh, you’re speaking to me again,” he muttered, glancing up at her without raising his head. “You can afford to be gracious, I suppose, now that the weather has settled the issue of contention between us.”
    Weather? Sandra frowned and moved to gaze out the window above the sink.
    “Oh!” she exclaimed in a surprised murmur.
    The scene beyond the pane was again one of a winter wonderland, every surface locked in ice, glittering in the pale light of morning.
    “Yeah,” he said disgustedly. “Even if you agreed to go, I couldn’t take you down that road. The Jeep’s great in snow, but it don’t do diddly on ice.”
    “But then.” Sandra swung around to look at him. “It works both ways, doesn’t it?”
    It was Cameron’s turn to frown; he produced more of a beetle-browed