Текст книги "Wedding The Highlander"

Автор книги: Джанет Чапмен

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

After taking nearly three hours to travel the eighty miles from Bangor, Libby crested yet another hill and just barely caught herself before slamming on the brakes. The sight of Pine Lake, with its vast waters contained only by the sheer strength of the mountains, stole her breath. Libby guided her car to the shoulder of the two-lane road, shut off the engine, and stared through the windshield.

Islands, some the size of houses and some several acres in size, dotted the large cove that fingered in from the lake toward the small town nestled on the shore. Mountains rose from the water’s edge like watchful guardians, several of their peaks shrouded by low clouds as they marched into the distance.

Her life up until this moment seemed no more than a dream as she stared at the great reality in front of her. Miracles lived here. This was a realm of possibilities, whispering the promise of sanctuary to her fragmented soul.

Her flight from California had ended. She’d been driven—or pulled—to this magical place by a guiding presence that needed no reason other than rightness. How and why and what would happen next did not matter. Libby simply knew this was where she belonged.

She had never given much thought to mystical powers—not until a week ago, when she’

d found herself holding that very power in her hands. She was a surgeon who could suddenly heal people without a scalpel.

Libby finally tore her gaze away from the lake and picked up her collection of printouts from Robbie MacBain. She shuffled the papers until she found the digital photos that had accompanied Robbie’s Internet ad. She stared at the young boy sitting on his pony in front of a field of Christmas trees and tried to decide what it was about him that had made her choose to come here.

His mother’s home was certainly enticing enough. And the mountains held their own allure, if only for their illusion of security.

But Robbie MacBain had been the final deciding factor. There was something about him, something almost otherworldly. He was a child with the eyes of an ancient soul. There was a presence about him, as he sat so proudly on his pony and looked directly at the camera with a subtle, I-know-a-secret smile lifting his lips and the promise of magic shining in his young, pewter-gray eyes.

Libby shuffled the papers again and found Robbie’s last e-mail to her. “Head northeast out of Pine Creek,” he’d written, “and drive until you see a large field of Christmas trees on your right. I think it’s about five miles from town. I know it’s not a very long ride on the schoolbus, so it shouldn’t take you too long to find my home.”

Libby adjusted the rearview mirror so she could see herself, brushed a stray curl from her face, and gave a quick fluff to her short, wavy hair. She blinked her huge brown eyes as she examined her reflection, hoping that her light touch of makeup wasn’t too much, and smiled to make sure a stray piece of lettuce from the sandwich she’d gotten in Bangor wasn’t stuck in her teeth. She wanted to look at least presentable when she met her new young landlord, so he wouldn’t realize that he’d rented his mother’s home to a desperate woman with secrets of her own.

Satisfied that she looked like a sane, sensible, thirty-one-year-old jewelry maker, Libby started the car, waited for a pickup truck to drive past, and pulled back onto the road.

She drove slowly through the tiny town of Pine Creek, noticing with interest the few stores and three dozen or so people going about their business. She also noticed that her little car was dwarfed by the many pickups and huge logging trucks. She saw only one other car, squeezed between dust-covered pickups in front of Dolan’s Outfitter Store.

She stopped at the intersection in the center of town and tried to decide which way to turn. She didn’t have a compass, but there were only three ways out of Pine Creek, and Libby picked the graveled but obviously much-used road that put the sun to her left, figuring it pointed her northeast.

She traveled for six miles and still didn’t see a Christmas tree. Libby picked up theMaine Atlas and Gazetteer she’d bought at the airport in Bangor, but her attention was quickly drawn back to the road when a streak of white swooped past the nose of her car. She slammed on the brakes and jerked the steering wheel to the left to avoid hitting the large bird.

She was traveling too fast, and her car skidded toward the ditch. Libby jerked the wheel back to the right, and again she slid on the frozen gravel, fishtailing into the sharp curve that suddenly loomed before her.

She might have been able to maintain control if that damn suicidal bird had not flown past her windshield again. She cut the wheel to the right this time, only to skid on a puddle of ice at the edge of the road. Her car hit the ditch, shot up the embankment, and suddenly became airborne.

Libby shielded her face with her arms as she plowed through a stand of evergreens, her scream of surprise cut short when the small car slammed into the frozen farm pond on the other side of the trees. Both airbags exploded, punching Libby in the chest and face with the force of a cannonball.

She slapped the slowly deflating airbag away, coughing on the packing powder that had shot through the interior of the car when the airbags deployed. Water and ice cascaded over the hood, seeping into the cracks in the windshield, and the sound of the hissing engine and gushing water turned Libby’s shock to terror.

The car settled deeper into the pond.

Libby grappled with the buckle on her seat belt as freezing water rushed over the floorboards. She finally got free but couldn’t open the door. It was locked, and she couldn’t find the release button on the new-model rental. She tried rolling down the windows, but they were electric and wouldn’t work, either. So she pulled her wet feet up onto the seat and started kicking at the driver’s side window. After several forceful kicks, she realized there was a man wading through the water toward her. His steely glare followed the path her car had taken, and then his piercing gun-metal eyes came to rest on her.

The car settled deeper into the pond.

The idiot. Why wasn’t he rushing to help her get out before she drowned? Libby kicked the window harder and yelled at the man to do something.

But he only continued to glare.

Until finally, and ever so slowly, he tried to open the door, only to find it was locked. He pointed at the gearshift and motioned for her to put the car in park.

Sitting upright, Libby pushed on the gearshift until it was in the park position. She heard the distinct sound of all four locks clicking open. She immediately lifted the door handle and tried to open the door, but it still wouldn’t budge.

And the car continued to settle deeper into the pond.

Libby started beating on the window again.

The man broke more of the ice around where he stood, braced one booted foot to the right of the car door, and took hold of the handle. With a powerful tug, he pulled open the door, and gallons of water rushed into the car, sweeping Libby into the passenger seat. She banged her head on the opposite window and cursed.

But she quickly shut up when her ungracious and still glaring rescuer ducked into the car. The guy was huge, the most ferocious-looking man she’d ever laid eyes on.

And he was cursing back at her.

Something about murdering his prize Christmas trees.

Or was he wanting to murder her?

“You little fool,” he growled as he reached toward her. “You won’t drown because the pond is not deep.”

More shaken by his attitude than his size, and deciding she wanted to escape him as well as the sinking car, Libby drew up her knees, planted her feet on his chest, and shoved.

Her action was so unexpected, the giant reared up, bumped his head on the roof, and went sprawling backward into the pond with another colorful curse of his own. Libby scrambled over the seat and out the door before he could recover, only to find that her legs refused to hold her up.

She fell on top of the giant.

Powerful arms wrapped around her. They both sank under the surface this time, and Libby swallowed half the pond as she struggled to get free. His strength mocked her efforts. And with one of his viselike arms wrapped around her waist and his other hand cupping her bottom, he simply stood up.

Libby instantly stilled when she found herself looking into deep gray eyes that were no longer glaring.

They were laughing.

And the giant’s hand on her bottom felt more like a caress than an attempt to secure her.

So much for first impressions. She was a soaking wet, shivering mess who couldn’t even keep her car on the road, and he was a knock-down-gorgeous mountain of man who couldn’t even control his hormones long enough to fish her out of a pond without copping a feel. But before she could tell him what she thought of his anything but heroic rescue, the chaos of the crash finally caught up with her, and Libby slumped forward and very quietly—and most unwisely—fainted.

The whispering woke her.

And the throbbing in her temple caused her to moan.

The whispers immediately ceased, and Libby opened her eyes, only to let out a scream of surprise that made her sit up and grab her head. Two strong hands reached out and took hold of her shoulders, keeping Libby from toppling over. Her head swam, making her dizzy, and she grasped the arms holding her steady, only to find herself looking into the deepest, darkest pewter-gray eyes she’d ever seen.

Eyes that were dancing with amusement.

“I fainted,” she said lamely.

“Aye.”

Libby blinked.Aye? “Aye?” she repeated aloud.

The giant nodded.

Libby felt the heat of her blush travel up her neck to her cheeks. She also felt a flutter in the pit of her stomach.

“Papa, can’t you see how huge her eyes are? You’re scaring Libby.”

Libby turned to the child who had spoken. The boy was sitting beside his father on the coffee table in front of the couch, grinning at her. She immediately recognized him from the picture in the ad on the Internet.

He patted her knee. “It’s okay, Libby,” he said. “My papa’s just afraid you’ll faint again.”

His papa was most likely getting ready to cop another feel, Libby thought. She looked back at Robbie MacBain’s father and gave him a good glare to let him know what she thought of his chivalry. She quickly decided she’d rather deal with the younger MacBain when Robbie’s papa simply smiled back.

“You know who I am?” she asked Robbie.

The boy nodded but lowered his eyes. “I knew you were Libby Hart the moment I saw you, but Papa looked in your purse just to make sure.”

Libby shot the man another glare. He finally let go of her shoulders and leaned away, crossing his arms over his chest, his deep gray eyes still dancing with lazy humor.

The wordgiant came to mind, but somehow even that label seemed inadequate.Goliath might fit better. Libby imagined Goliath had looked just as intimidating.

This giant was wearing a flannel shirt that clung to an impressively broad chest and strongly muscled arms. There was a towel draped around his neck, which obviously had been run over his still damp hair to dry up the pond water. The shadow of an emerging beard covered his angular jaw, and his high cheekbones were tinged red as his body worked to replace the heat he’d lost to the pond.

Libby couldn’t decide if he was ruggedly handsome or simply imposing in a very male way. He did make her pulse race, but then, that just might be her body trying to warm itself up.

Libby decided to give her attention to Robbie.

But Robbie was looking at his father. “See, Papa. She’s already making you smile. And you laughed at the pond.”

Libby looked back at the giant, who had lifted one brow at his son. “Aye. She did make me laugh,” he agreed. He shot Libby a grin. “She’s the smallest fish we’ve pulled from that pond all year.”

Libby snapped her gaze down to her lap, brushing her wet clothes as she felt heat climb back to her face. Oh, he was a nasty man, making fun of her size.

“Do ya think we should throw her back and let her grow a bit more?” the older MacBain continued, humor lacing every word.

“No, Papa. I want to keep her.”

Libby reached up to push one of her short, damp curls behind her ear.

“Well, Papa? Can I keep her?” Robbie asked.

“You’re a jewelry maker?” the older MacBain asked.

Libby dismissed his question with an absent nod and directed her own question at Robbie. “Does your papa have a name?”

Robbie grinned at her. “Aye. It’s Michael.”

Libby snapped her gaze to Michael MacBain. Surely this man had nothing in common with that great angel. But then again, maybeMichael did fit. The archangel he was named for must be large and powerful and ferocious-looking if he was capable of defending Heaven.

Michael MacBain looked capable enough.

“What happened to your hair?” Robbie asked. “Did you have a terrible fright when you were young that turned some of it white?”

Libby reached up to touch the white streak of hair over her forehead and smiled. “No, I didn’t have a fright. I was born with it that way.”

Libby noticed that Robbie leaned forward in interest and that Michael MacBain leaned back in… well, in suspicion. She considered both of their reactions rude but refrained from saying so.

Libby let her hand trail down from her hair to rest on a bump on the left side of her forehead. It felt as large as a goose egg and made her head throb when she touched it.

“Can you tell me if ya’re hurt anywhere else?” Michael asked with a grin that made him look more devilish than angelic. “I noticed your knee appears to be swollen,” he said, looking down at her wet trousers clinging to an obviously swollen knee.

Her knee did feel swollen and hurt when she tried to bend it. She must have hit it on the dash when her car slammed into the water. Her left shoulder and chest felt bruised—

from the seat belt, most likely. But other than a few bumps and a pounding headache, she felt relatively intact.

“How long was I out?” she asked, wondering about a concussion.

“Maybe ten minutes,” Michael said.

Libby forced herself to look at her rescuer. “Thank you for pulling me out of the pond,”

she ungraciously muttered, remembering how he had taken his damned time to do it.

She gave him a less than warm smile. “I’m glad you finally realized that I wouldn’t grow any bigger and decided to fish me out.”

Michael stood up. “And now I must go fish out your car,” he said, giving her an equally ungracious smile. “And see what are left of my Christmas trees.”

He leaned over, placed one hand on the back of the couch, and set his face uncomfortably close. “Your little accident has cost me first place at the state fair next year, lady,” he whispered. “And I intend to see that I’m compensated.”

With that warning—or maybe it was a threat—Michael MacBain straightened and walked out of the room. Robbie immediately scooted along the coffee table until he was sitting beside her and patted her arm.

“Don’t let him bother you, Libby. Papa likes to growl a lot, but he don’t mean anything by it.” He suddenly grinned and held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Robbie MacBain.”

Libby took the young man’s offering. “It’s nice to meet you finally, Robbie MacBain,”

she said, shaking his hand, trying not to notice that it was nearly as large as hers. Or that she probably outweighed the boy by only twenty pounds.

She couldn’t decide how old he was. He spoke and acted much younger than he looked, and there was an aura of eager innocence about him. Did eleven-or twelve-year-old boys still call their fathers Papa?

“How old are you, Robbie?”

The boy puffed up his chest. “Eight,” he told her. “But I’ll be nine in January.”

Libby didn’t believe him. He was nearly as tall as she was. And his eyes, for all the innocence she saw in them, also hinted at a wisdom usually found in adults.

“Eight?” she repeated. “You’re sure?”

He frowned at her. “Of course I’m sure,” he said, as if she were simple-minded. “I was born the year of the ice storm.”

Libby hadn’t heard about any ice storm, but she nodded agreement. It was possible the boy was just large for his age, especially considering the size of his father. Michael MacBain must be nearly six and a half feet tall.

Libby stood five-foot-three in heels.

She still couldn’t believe she’d actually attacked the man in the pond. It must have been temporary insanity induced by her fear of drowning. Or maybe the cold water had momentarily frozen her brain.

“Ah, Robbie? Do you think you can find me something dry to wear?”

He thought about that and said, “Gram Ellen’s clothes are still here, but I don’t think you should use them. It might upset Grampy if he sees you in them.”

“Grampy?”

Robbie nodded. “Grampy John. He’s not really my grampy, but he likes that I call him that. He’s not here right now, but he lives with Papa and me ’cause he used to own this farm. But he sold it to Papa before I was born.”

“And your Gram Ellen? Where is she?”

“Dead,” he said, lowering his eyes. “Papa and Paul buried her in the cemetery up back two months ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Robbie,” Libby said sincerely. “Who’s Paul?”

“Grampy’s son. But he’s gone back to Hawaii now.”

“I see. Then maybe you’re right, I shouldn’t borrow your Gram Ellen’s clothes. How about something of yours?”

He stood up. “I’ll go get you one of my shirts.” He looked up and down the length of her lying on the couch. “I got some jogging pants that will fit you,” he added. He headed for the door. “I’ll bring you some socks, too.”

As soon as he disappeared up the stairs, Libby sat up and swung her feet over the edge of the couch, pulled up her pants leg, and looked at her knee. It was indeed swollen and red. She flexed the knee several times, stood up, and put some weight on it.

It hurt but still worked well enough. Libby straightened and put one hand to the small of her back, leaning backward to flex her muscles. She ached all over but suspected it was nothing compared with what she would feel tomorrow.

She was lucky. Her injuries could have been much worse, considering that she probably had totaled the car.

Libby looked around the huge living room and soon realized that this was an all-bachelor household now, since Gram Ellen had died two months ago. There was so much dust covering the furniture that Robbie and Michael’s handprints were clearly visible on the coffee table.

Robbie had mentioned in one of his e-mails that his mother had died when he was a child. And apparently there was no new Mrs. Michael MacBain in residence. Or, if there was, she wasn’t much of a housekeeper.

Libby limped over to one of the windows to look out, only to gasp in surprise.

She was standing smack in the middle of Christmas.

The snow that had threatened all day during her drive here had finally arrived. Huge, fat, cotton-ball flakes floated down over the landscape, sticking to everything they touched. Rows upon rows of Christmas trees covered the field for as far as she could see.

She had traveled to Wonderland.

Movement caught her attention, and Libby watched as Michael MacBain drove his tractor up to the edge of the car-eating pond. He climbed down and waded into the water until it reached his chest.

The man didn’t so much as flinch, much less hesitate to enter the freezing pond. How could he do that? Libby shuddered in her own wet clothes at just the thought of how cold he must be. Heck, she knew from personal experience.

She watched, intrigued and maybe in awe, as Michael pulled a cable from the front of his tractor and dove under the back bumper of the car to attach it. Libby held her breath and didn’t release it until he resurfaced.

The man was amazing. Or suicidal. Was he even aware that he could get hypothermia and not even know it until it was too late?

And why was he doing this dangerous and unpleasant chore for her, anyway?

Especially considering how mad he was at her.

She had mowed down some of the prize Christmas trees he’d been growing for a state competition. Anyone in his situation would have simply handed her the phone and told her to call a wrecker. But Michael was working in freezing water to clean up the mess she’d made.

And for that, Libby felt guilty.

She was deeply indebted to Michael MacBain.

And that worried her. She wasn’t used to owing people. Especially tall, ruggedly handsome men who could turn her insides into warm liquid mush with just a look.

Libby hugged herself, remembering the feel of Michael’s hands on her shoulders. Truth told, she’d been downright flustered in a very feminine way. Dammit. She was going to have to watch herself if she wanted to make a go of it here. She couldn’t get starry-eyed over the first good-looking mountain man she met.

Nor could she let herself get too attached to his son.

She’d come here to build a new life for herself, and she couldn’t risk getting involved with her landlords because, above all else, she had to protect her terrible secret.

Michael surfaced from the pond and tossed his head back to clear the water from his face. He waded to the driver’s side of the car and pushed on the door until it clicked shut, then looked in the backseat of the nearly submerged compact and shook his head.

All of Libby Hart’s belongings were soaked, including what looked like a computer floating around in a black briefcase.

The woman was damned lucky to be alive. If he and Robbie hadn’t been home or had been up back in the twelve-acre field, she could have frozen to death before she escaped.

Michael snorted. Woman? he thought with another shake of his head. Libby Hart looked more like a boy than a woman, with her short curly hair, tiny body, and childlike large brown eyes. The only thing big about Libby was her temper.

Michael caught himself smiling again. The woman had been so flaming mad at him that she’d come out of the car cursing at him. Which meant her courage was bigger than she was, for her to go up against a man twice her size.

Which also told him that Libby Hart was reckless.

What had his son gotten them into? For the last four days, Robbie had been so excited about Libby’s arrival, it had been all Michael could do to keep the boy from bouncing off the walls.

So he’d put his son to work getting Mary’s house ready for its new tenant. And he’d shamed Grace MacKeage into supervising Robbie, since she had played such a large role in this unsubtle conspiracy to find him a wife.

Well, hell. Somebody should have asked for a picture of Libby Hart. The woman barely came up to Michael’s chest.

But Michael had to admit that she was all woman. He remembered the feel of her nice little behind as he’d lifted her out of the pond. He’d also noticed her flawless skin and long, elegant neck peeking out of her half-buttoned blouse when he’d carried her into the house. He’d had to button that blouse back up after sending Robbie to get a towel, when he would have preferred to strip it off her instead.

Michael felt his blood beginning to stir, only to realize that he’d gone numb from the waist down. He waded back out of the freezing water, climbed onto the tractor, and put it in gear. He slowly released the clutch to coax the car gently out of the pond, but his memory of Libby’s body proved a distraction. He popped the clutch, and the tractor lurched back, jerking the car with it until Michael and the two vehicles rolled out onto the road.

And still the image of Libby persisted.

Dammit. He had no use for small, reckless women.

Aye, Libby Hart was going to be trouble.

Chapter Four

Robbie sat in Libby’s newly rented house,his elbows on the kitchen table and his chin resting in his palms as he supervised her unpacking. He examined every item as it came out of her soggy suitcase and guilelessly announced whether he thought it was ruined or not.

The ruined pile was growing quite large.

Libby gave up trying to save her belongings and stuffed a lot of things back into the suitcase. She carried it over to the kitchen door and dropped it onto the floor.

“What day does the trash get picked up?” she asked her helper as she set her computer case on the table.

“Picked up?” Robbie echoed, giving her a quizzical look.

“The trash truck. What day of the week does it come around?”

“We don’t have a truck that picks up our trash. You gotta take it to the dump.”

Libby blinked at her landlord. “I have to take it myself?”

Robbie nodded. “Yup. The dump is open every Saturday.”

“I don’t suppose that your taking my trash to the dump is included in the rent?”

As Robbie thought about that, his eyebrows lowered in a deep frown. Libby laughed and waved her hand at the air. “Never mind. You come with me next Saturday and show me where the dump is. If I’m going to live here, I might as well get used to the way things are.”

Libby opened her computer case but had to step back when a gallon of water spilled out, covering the table and running onto the floor. Robbie scrambled away from the mess and whistled.

“I don’t think your computer survived, Libby. Aunt Grace says never get electronics wet.”

“Aunt Grace?”

Robbie walked back to the table and looked at the soggy computer. “She’s my mama’s sister,” he told her, finally looking at Libby. “They grew up together in this house.”

Libby stilled in the act of reaching for her computer. “And how does your aunt feel about my living in her family’s home?”

Robbie gave her a huge grin. “It was her idea. That I rent it,” he clarified. “It was my idea that I rent it to you.”

“And I thank you for that,” Libby said with a grin of her own. She looked around the huge old kitchen. “I’ve already fallen in love with this place. It feels… ” She looked back at Robbie. “It feels homey. I’m going to enjoy living here. And thank you for having the firewood stacked in the garage. I can’t wait to use that beautiful hearth.”

Robbie suddenly turned serious. “I found ya some kittens, but Uncle Ian said they won’t be ready to leave their mama for a few more days yet. I can bring them here after school one day next week, if that’s okay with you.”

“Oh, that will be wonderful. Is Uncle Ian your mama’s brother?”

“No. He’s not really my uncle, he just likes that I call him that. He’s really Uncle Grey’s cousin.”

“Uncle Grey?”

“Aunt Grace’s husband,” Robbie said with an exasperated sigh. “There are four MacKeage men. Grey, Ian, Callum, and Morgan. They own TarStone Mountain Resort, on the other side of that ridge over there,” he explained, pointing at the kitchen window.

“Grey is married to Aunt Grace, Morgan is married to Sadie, and Callum is married to Charlotte,” he continued, apparently feeling the need to list his extended family.

“Ian’s not married to no one, ’cause he says he’s too cantankerous to be married to a woman,” he finished.

Since Robbie was being so informative, Libby decided to pry a bit more. She wanted to know about her new neighbors.

“Does your father have any brothers or sisters?”

“Nope. It’s just him and me. And John. But I already told you about Grampy.”

“And do you have any cousins on the MacKeage side?”

Robbie grinned again, then suddenly scrunched up his face. “Aunt Grace got all girls.

Six. And she’s pregnant again and says this one’s going to be a girl, too.” He brightened back up. “Aunt Sadie and Uncle Morgan got three boys and a girl, but they need to grow up some more before I can really play with them. And they don’t trust me alone with Jennifer anymore. Not after I nearly killed her. But Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Callum’s got a boy, and I play with him a lot.”

Libby looked up in surprise. “You nearly killed a girl?”

Robbie nodded, then quickly shook his head in denial. “Naw. Papa told me they just said that ’cause they were scared. They didn’t understand that I was holding on real tight to Jennifer. She wouldn’t have fallen.”

“Fallen from where?” Libby asked softly.

“Off my pony. Jennifer wanted a ride for her birthday.”

“And how old is Jennifer?”

“Two. Or she was. She’s two and a half now.”

Being very careful not to let her horror show on her face, Libby sat down, only to wince when she sat in a puddle of water.

“Oh, about your wanting to have a horse,” Robbie said, completely unaware of her distress.

“What about a horse?” Libby asked, shaking away the picture of Robbie riding his pony with a child on his lap.

“I’ve been thinking that you don’t gotta buy your own horse, Libby. I was planning for you to ride Papa’s. But he told me that after seeing you, you better ride my pony and for me to ride Stomper.”

Determined to ignore Michael’s insult to her size again, Libby asked, “And just how big is Stomper that your papa thinks you would be better off riding him?”

“Oh, Stomper’s a warhorse. But he’s used to me and behaves most of the time. It’s only when Papa rides him that he gets a little wild.”

“A warhorse?” Libby whispered. She didn’t know what breed a warhorse was, but it sounded large. And mean.

“Stomper’s really old.” He tried to console Libby, patting her knee. “And he’s not a warhorse anymore. But Papa won’t let him pull the Christmas sled, ’cause he says it’s beneath Stomper’s dignity.”

The boy was a fountain of information—some of which sent shivers down Libby’s spine.

There was a knock on the porch door, and Libby stood up, but she stopped to pull her wet pants away from her bum, which is why Robbie beat her to the door.

A beautiful and very pregnant woman walked in carrying a sack of groceries. “There’s more in the truck, Robbie,” she said, setting the bag down on the counter. She turned and held out her hand. “Hi. I’m Grace MacKeage, Robbie’s aunt.”

Libby took the offered hand and shook it. “It’s good to meet you, Grace. I’m Libby, and I

’ve been hearing all about you from Robbie.”

Grace snorted. “I just bet you have.” The fortyish woman put her hands on her back to support her swollen stomach as she looked around the kitchen. “So. What do you think of the old homestead? Meet your standards?”

Libby nodded and rushed to pull out a chair from the table. She checked to make sure it was dry, then waved her new neighbor over. “It’s beautiful. Please, sit down. I don’t have any tea to offer you yet, but we can at least visit.”