Текст книги "Wedding The Highlander"

Автор книги: Джанет Чапмен

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

It was a good plan, from an eight-year-old’s perspective, and Michael didn’t have the heart to tell the boy that Libby was not lacking for money.

Michael had had a talk with Grace when he’d learned a new tenant had been found for Mary’s home. But Grace had been tight-lipped over what she had discovered about Libby Hart. All she had told Michael was not to worry about Libby’s finances. The woman was not there to find herself a rich husband.

No. She’d come to plague him instead, to stir his blood, and to awaken feelings better left dead.

“Spellcompensate for me, Papa,” Robbie demanded, looking up from the computer screen.

“You’ll write your note long-hand,” Michael said. “You don’t ask a favor by e-mail.”

“I’m not. I’m going to write it on the computer but print it out so you can take it with you.”

“Nay. You’ll ask in your own hand, Robbie, or you’ll not ask at all. When you have a request, you do it personally. And a computer is not personal.”

Robbie rolled his eyes but shut off the screen and picked up a pencil. He was quiet for several minutes, concentrating on forming letters that came so much easier on the keyboard.

Robbie might read at a much higher level, but he didn’t much care for writing. Michael knew Robbie was big for his age; he’d been to school often enough and seen his son’s classmates. Aye, the boy was strong, intelligent, capable, and far too astute for one so young.

Most of the time. But every now and then—more often lately—Robbie would do something to remind Michael that he was still only a bairn. A bad dream, an insecurity, self-doubt over a decision, when he would need the comfort of a good cuddle, a hug, or sometimes only a wink of understanding.

“I’m back tocompensate, Papa.”

“C-O-M-P-E-N-S-A-T-E.”

Robbie went back to work, the only sound in the room that of his impatient sighs and the scratch of the pencil.

Michael studied the box at his feet. He could take it over to Libby tonight, after Robbie was safely tucked into bed. John was there to watch over things.

No. He’d better not. She may have said yes this afternoon, but her answer had been filled with doubt. Libby probably didn’t even realize it, but Michael knew she wasn’t ready.

She would be, though. He would see to it.

“I’m done,” Robbie said, coming around the desk as he folded his note. He set it on the box and looked up at Michael and grinned. “I have your word ya won’t peek?”

“Aye.”

“Then I’m going to bed now,” he said, yawning and stretching his arms to get the kinks out of his growing muscles. “I want to get up early and work on the rest of my surprise before school.” He gave Michael a stern look. “You haven’t been in Grampy’s workshop, have you?”

“I’ve not,” Michael assured him. “I’m letting the suspense drive me nuts.”

Robbie pushed the book off Michael’s lap and scrambled up to replace it. He turned and snuggled against Michael’s chest and pulled his father’s arms around him.

“Tell me what ya think of her, Papa,” he demanded.

Michael gave Robbie a bear hug. “I think we’re going to have to mount a flag on the woman, so we can find her in the snow this winter.”

“Aunt Grace says good things come in small packages.”

“Aye. And some packages are smaller than others. What do you think of her?” Michael asked, turning Robbie’s question back on him.

Robbie tilted his head to smile at his father. “I think you think she’s pretty.”

“I don’t know,” Michael murmured, looking up at the ceiling while he tried to decide.

“She’s got short hair. I don’t particularly care for short hair on a woman.”

“Hair can grow.”

“And she’s not very curvy,” Michael continued, still looking up. “In fact, I’m not sure she has any curves at all.”

“She’s got perky breasts.”

Michael snapped his head down. “Excuse me?”

“Aren’t Libby’s breasts perky?”

Michael squeezed his son a little harder this time.

“Where have you heard that term?”

“At school. Frankie Boggs says men like perky breasts.”

“Gentlemen do not discuss women’s anatomy.”

“I’m going to be a warrior, not a gentleman.”

“You can be both.”

“Are you a gentleman?”

“Nay. Aye.” Michael rubbed a hand over his face. “I try, Robbie. And I don’t discuss women’s anatomy with other men.”

“You only discuss it with women?”

Michael let out a sigh that moved Robbie’s hair. “Son, a woman’s body should not be discussed. Ever.”

“Can it be looked at?”

Michael tore his gaze away and looked at the hearth. It was getting damned hot in there.

He looked back at Robbie. “It can be appreciated,” he carefully said, realizing he’d started this discussion by listing Libby’s lack of curves. “Men can’t help but look. Even gentlemen,” he quickly added before Robbie could speak. “But they keep their thoughts to themselves.”

“Do ya think Libby can cook?”

Michael breathed a sigh of relief finally to be on safer ground. “If she can boil water, she’

s doing better than we are.”

“Do… do ya think she’ll stay, Papa?”

Michael stood up, set his son on his feet, and headed them both to the hall and up the stairs. “She might,” he told him truthfully. “But ya shouldn’t expect it. Things change in people’s lives, Robbie. And if Libby must leave, then accept her decision and be glad she came into your life, even for a little while.”

“You want her to stay, don’t ya?”

Michael stood Robbie in front of the bathroom sink and handed him his toothbrush.

“Aye. I won’t mind if Libby decides to stay.”

Robbie grinned up at him. “That’s good, then,” he said, nodding. “’Cause she’s going to.”

“And why are you so sure?”

“Mary told me.”

Michael stilled in the act of squeezing the toothpaste onto Robbie’s toothbrush. “When?”

“This afternoon, when I got home from school. Mary was waiting when I got off the bus.

She also told me where to find you and Libby and that I should probably go fetch you.”

Michael sat down at the edge of the tub. “Explain how your pet told you such a thing.

The owl can’t talk, son.”

Robbie shrugged. “She just told me. She was looking at me, and suddenly I just knew.”

His uncertain young eyes blinked up at Michael. “I… we talk all the time,” he confessed.

Michael placed the tube of toothpaste on the counter, then rubbed his hands over his tired face in an attempt to clear the fog from his brain.

He was going up the mountain again tomorrow and having a talk with thedrùidh . Daar had hinted more than once over the last eight years that Robbie was special. The old priest had not been specific, although Michael had heard him mutter the wordguardian once or twice. But when pressed, Daar had refused to elaborate. He’d only said that time would tell.

Well, it was time.

“Are ya mad ’cause I talk to Mary?” Robbie asked, looking at Michael with the fragile eyes of a boy mightily in need of his mother.

“Nay,” Michael assured him. “I’m glad you have a good friendship with Mary. And now Libby does as well. Mary landed on her arm today.”

Robbie gasped. “She did? Truly?” he asked in surprise. “Mary won’t even come to you.”

He suddenly shot Michael a smug grin. “That must mean she likes Libby.”

“And that she doesn’t like me?”

“Nay, Papa,” Robbie said, smacking him in the shoulder with his toothbrush. “Mary’s afraid to get close to you because you might try to keep her forever.”

Well, hell. From the mouth of a babe. For more than a week, Michael had been bothered that the snowy would not come to him. That the pet his son called Mary virtually ignored him.

And now he realized why.

She was forcing Michael to let go. She was keeping her distance in order to free him.

And today, on TarStone, she had accepted Libby Hart into her son’s life.

But had she accepted Libby into his?

Mary had appeared on purpose, most likely because Michael had been with Libby. She had wanted him to witness their interaction and to know that the woman renting her family home had her approval.

He understood this, because in the twelve years since being hurtled through time, Michael had made it his business to understand all sides—visible and invisible—of the world around him. He had learned to open his mind, as well as his heart, to the existence of magic.

Which is why nothing surprised him anymore.

Not even a son who said he talked to an owl.

Michael gave Robbie a fierce hug. “Brush your teeth and go to bed, young man. I’m waking you at five to go work on your surprise. And Grampy John still will likely be in the shed before you are.”

“He cut his thumb yesterday,” Robbie confessed, as if it were somehow his fault. “I bandaged it for him,” he added in his defense.

Michael pushed the toothbrush toward Robbie’s mouth. “It’s probably time for John to have his glasses strengthened. And it’s good you were there to bandage him up.”

Satisfied that what he’d hoped to accomplish tonight had been taken care of—

persuading Michael to take his box over to Libby and getting the fact that he talked to an owl off his young chest—Robbie was more than ready for bed. He brushed his teeth, stripped himself naked as he ran into his room, and climbed under the covers.

“Aunt Grace bought me another pair of pajamas,” the boy said, distaste dripping off the last word. “She’s bound I’m going to be civilized, Papa. Can ya make her stop?”

Michael leaned over and kissed him good night. “It would take an act of God to make her stop.”

“Then that’s what I’m praying for tonight. That Aunt Grace stops buying me pajamas.”

Michael walked to the door and turned out the bedroom light but stopped in the hall and nodded. “Aye. Include me, then. I have six pairs in my closet.”

Michael left the hall light on, went back down the stairs, and returned to the library. He didn’t sit in his chair but stood in the center of the room and stared at the box with the note lying on top.

He walked over and picked up the envelope, only to realize it had been sealed. Not wishing to spoil Robbie’s surprise, and hoping that Libby would feel the same way, Michael picked up the box, held it, and stood there and stared.

He threw the box and the letter back onto the stool and sat down in the chair. He found his book, opened it to the bookmark, and took two minutes to realize the damned thing was upside down. He tossed the book onto the floor and stared at the box.

“Aw, hell,” Michael growled to the empty room. He swept up the box and the letter and strode to the kitchen.

“I’m going out for a while,” he told John, who was poking his head into the fridge, most likely hoping something edible had appeared there magically since supper. “Robbie’s in bed.”

John straightened, looked at Michael’s face and then at the box in his hand, and smiled.

“Take your time,” he said. “I’ll sleep with my door open, in case Robbie needs me.”

Michael nodded but didn’t move.

John went back to exploring the contents of the fridge. “It’s a good night for a walk,” he said into the empty cavern. “Maybe Robbie’s new tenant would like to join you and have a look at our stars.” He lifted his head above the fridge door and shot Michael another grin. “And don’t feel you have to hurry back here. I got things under control.”

Michael fought for some control of his own but lost the battle. He grabbed his jacket and headed outside, then stood on the porch and took several gulps of crisp night air. He finally shrugged into his coat and set out on the same path he’d taken during last night’s storm.

Only this time, his reason for traveling it had changed.

Chapter Nine

Libby repositioned the bag of iceon her knee, then shuffled through the papers on her lap until she came to the page of things she had to buy. She crossed the truck off the list and shuffled again until she found the page of things she had to do. She made a note to register her new truck, then went back to her list of things to buy. She studied it, thought about it, and crossed off the computer.

She needed to prioritize, and a computer wasn’t important right now. An ATV was. Two helmets were. Clothes—warm winter clothes. And birth control.

Libby tapped her pencil against her lips and stared into the fire, wondering if there was a doctor in Pine Creek. She hadn’t been on the pill since med school. And she had to find something soon, if she had read that look in Michael’s eyes correctly this afternoon when she agreed to have an affair with him.

Libby frowned. She couldn’t picture Michael using a condom. Not because he was callous or unconcerned, but maybe condoms didn’t fit with his concept of living according to the laws of nature. And he’d had a son without having a wedding first, so Libby decided she would be responsible for their birth control.

She looked back at her list of things to do. First thing tomorrow, she had to go to the post office and pick up the jewelry-making equipment she’d mailed to herself, now that she had a truck to load it in. And while she was in town, she’d take Ian’s advice and check with the Dolans about renting their storefront.

Libby smiled to herself, thinking how lucky she was to have a ski resort right next-door.

Her studio should do okay there, since she imagined beautiful Pine Lake attracted as many tourists in the summer as TarStone Mountain did in the winter.

Maybe she would take up skiing. She was definitely going to try snowmobiling. She’d seen several sporting goods stores on her drive up from Bangor and couldn’t wait to try one of the colorful, sleek, powerful-looking machines.

Part of her new life plan was to live a bit more recklessly. Not stupidly, though. She’d wear a helmet and get the proper instructions, and she would ride safely and stay on the marked trails. But it was time to expand her world to include some of the more exciting things in life.

Like having an affair with a sexy mountain man? Heck, Libby couldn’t think of anything more exciting than messing up her sheets with Michael MacBain.

She leaned her head back on the couch and closed her eyes on a sigh. She had done a good job of keeping herself occupied these last few days—of keeping her mind off her problem.

Or, to give credit where it was due, Michael MacBain had done a good job of keeping away the memory of what had taken place in her operating room an entire lifetime ago.

She had gotten her mother to check discreetly on her patients before she left California.

Esther Brown and Jamie Garcia had walked out of the hospital that day, neither of them the worse for the wear of their ordeal.

No, she was the one who had come away wounded.

Not mortally but definitely shell-shocked.

Libby lifted her head and looked down at the towel of ice on her knee. If it was true—if she really could heal people by will alone—could she heal herself?

And if she could, should she? Wasn’t that… unethical or something? Was there an unwritten code for people like her that said they couldn’t practice on themselves?

“Physician, heal thyself,” Libby quoted aloud, waving her hand over her knee like a magic wand.

“So I should call you Dr. Hart, it seems.”

Libby bolted off the couch, her surprise erupting in a scream as she spun toward her intruder.

Michael winced but didn’t move.

“Goddammit, Michael!” she shouted, throwing her towel of ice at him. He ducked to the side, and the towel hit the wall behind him, ice cubes scattering around the room like shattering glass.

Michael straightened, his expression resigned.

“I’m changing the locks on the door.”

“That won’t stop me.”

“You scared the hell out of me, Michael.”

“I thought screaming might be like the hiccups. That a good fright might cure ya.” His features suddenly hardened. “But it seems you were trying to cure yourself, Dr. Libby Hart.”

Libby snapped her gaze to the third button on Michael’s shirt and rubbed her hands on her thighs in an attempt to calm her racing heart. Finally, and with a shuddering breath, she made her decision and raised her eyes to his.

“Actually, it’s Dr. Elizabeth Hart.”

His stance didn’t change. His eyes did—they darkened and narrowed and cut into her like the razor edge of a scalpel.

“What kind of doctor?”

“A trauma surgeon.”

“That explains a lot.”

“It doesn’t explain a damn thing.”

“It explains everything,” he countered, still not moving, still piercing her with steel-dark eyes. “Like why you feel so strongly about helmets. And,” he continued more forcefully when she tried to speak, “why you act decisively and from your gut. A trauma surgeon would be used to making quick and instinctive decisions. Tell me if I’m wrong, Elizabeth, in thinking that you insist on being in control of whatever situation you find yourself in.”

“Of course I do. That’s what a surgeon does.”

“Aye. I understand now, this authority you carry around you like a protective shield, which you’ve created to keep yourself insulted from your patients—a shield that also keeps you safe from the rest of the world.”

“I’m not an ice queen.”

“Nay,” he softly agreed. “You are pure fire, Elizabeth. And that scares the hell out of you, because something happened in California a week ago that shattered your control.”

“I’m not a doctor anymore. And I’m Libby now, not Elizabeth.”

Michael finally moved. He walked around the couch and stood in front of her, and Libby craned her neck, refusing to break eye contact with him.

Michael reached out and picked her up before she could react. He stood her on the hearth so she was at eye level with him, then stepped away and clasped his hands behind his back.

“You don’t spend your entire life training to be a surgeon and then simply turn your back and walk away. What happened a week ago, Libby?”

“Some-something I can’t explain.”

“Try,” he gently entreated.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I… I can’t say it out loud, Michael.”

He unclasped his hands and cupped the sides of her face, using his thumbs to brush away tears Libby hadn’t even realized were running down her cheeks. “It’s okay, lass.

Your fear will find its own voice when you’re ready,” he softly assured her, bringing his mouth close to hers.

Libby eagerly met his kiss, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and clung to him with the desperation of a leaf facing a storm. She opened her mouth and tasted him, felt his vitality, and was consumed by the strength of his response.

He smelled of wood smoke, of mountain air and the crisp autumn night he’d walked through to get there. The man was solid granite under the flannel of his shirt, and Libby dug her fingers into his shoulders as she canted her head to deepen their kiss. He completely engulfed her, both physically and emotionally, and Libby’s desperation slowly and quietly turned to passion.

His tongue explored her mouth while his hands sought out the curve of her backside, sending shivers of delight along the path of his touch. Libby pressed her body closer, whimpered when he lifted her against him, and trailed her lips over his chin and down to the base of his throat, glorying in the heat and smell and taste of his skin.

She felt as if she was floating, and it took Libby a minute to realize that Michael had sat down on the couch. She found herself straddling his lap and couldn’t stop herself from moving against him. Heat shot through her at the intimate contact and settled deep in the pit of her stomach. She trembled with urgency as she unbuttoned his shirt.

Michael stopped her by placing his hands over hers.

Libby looked up into storm-gray eyes that shone with the fire of pure male lust. But it was lust held in control by pure male determination. She clasped Michael’s face between her hands and kissed him soundly on the mouth, then pulled back just enough for him to see her smile.

“Don’t you dare get noble on me, Michael. This is something we both want.”

He gathered her hands back and trapped them against his chest. “I was just wondering who’s supposed to be in charge,” he drawled, his eyes gleaming with humor.

Libby blinked. “We can work as a team.”

He lifted one brow in contradiction. “Really? I don’t feel like part of a team. In fact, I don

’t even feel like I need to participate, only just show up.”

Libby leaned back. “Are you one of those Neanderthal guys who’s got to be in charge in order to perform?”

Michael lifted his hips against her. “I don’t think performance is the problem, lass,” he said. “And I’m a bit more evolved than a caveman.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

He cupped her face in his hands, his expression serious.

“I didn’t come here tonight to make love to you, Libby.”

Her cheeks burned, and she tried to climb off his lap.

Michael held her in place. “This is not a rejection, woman. It’s a call to our senses. It’s too soon for you. And for me.”

“Then why did you come here?”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a self-abasing grin. “I intended only to make out with you a bit. To get myself hot and bothered and very frustrated.”

“But why?”

He cocked his head at her, his eyes lit with amusement.

“I believe it’s called foreplay.”

Libby smacked him on the shoulder, pulling free and climbing off him, not the least bit contrite when Michael grunted in surprise and had to protect himself from being unmanned by her knee.

She marched to the hearth, got down on her knees, and made herself busy putting logs on the fire while she fought to bring her temper under control.

No, not her temper—her raging hormones.

Damn him. The man was an idiot. She had all but offered herself up on a silver platter, and he had bluntly said no, although he had tried to soften his rejection by claiming it was for her own good.

Well, dammit, she was getting sorely tired of his nobility.

“You’re going to start a chimney fire if you put any more wood on,” he nobly informed her.

“It’s my body, isn’t it?” she accused, still poking at the logs, deciding it was the fire heating her face, not shame.

“Excuse me?”

“I look like a twelve-year-old boy.”

He said nothing to that. Libby poked the logs more violently. Since the age of seventeen, when she had finally realized she wasn’t going to grow another inch and would never have womanly curves, Libby had decided sex was probably overrated, anyway.

Yeah. Well. She wanted those curves now. And six inches added to her height while she was at it. Dammit, he had to stand her on the hearth just to see her face.

Libby jumped when Michael wrapped his arms around her, taking the poker away with one large hand and pulling her back against his chest with the other.

“You don’t feel like a twelve-year-old boy,” he whispered in her ear, sending prickles of awareness shooting through her. “Ya feel like fire in my hands, lass, when I touch you.”

And he did touch her then, lifting his hand to cover her breasts, pulling her more tightly against him, more intimately into the spread of his kneeling thighs. And the evidence of what he thought of her body scorched her back.

Libby took a shuddering breath, which firmed her breast into his palm when he squeezed her gently and brushed his thumb over her nipple. He splayed his other hand across her stomach, his fingers sliding lower to gently touch her woman’s place.

Libby’s response was immediate. Heat pulsed through her. Moisture gathered. And the nipple he was stroking poked through her bra and shirt, searching for more of his touch.

She tried to turn to face him, to wrap her arms around his neck and stifle her moan in his shoulder, but he held her still and continued to stroke her, sending her into a storm of raging desire.

His hand on her breast moved to the buttons on her shirt, and, with painstaking slowness, he worked them open one at a time. Libby gripped the edge of the hearth and closed her eyes as heat built inside her and moisture continued to gather against his hand between her thighs.

Her blouse finally unbuttoned, he slipped it down her arms, and his lips found the base of her throat.

Libby moaned, threw back her head, and whispered a curse.

Michael chuckled, the sound deep and warm, as he pulled down the straps of her bra and continued to make love to her neck with his mouth.

He brought both hands up to her now naked breasts, covering them, kneading them, completely inflaming her.

And then he moved to the snap of her pants.

It was all Libby could do to hold on to her sanity. His mouth was driving her into a frenzy, trailing over every inch of exposed skin. He opened her jeans and then slid his fingers inside her panties and caressed her intimately.

Libby cried out and twisted, trying to face him, but he still refused to let her move. He just kept working his magic with his hand, building her desire with his fingers, making her yearn for more.

“Let go, lass,” he whispered into her hair. “Burst into beautiful flame.”

She didn’t want to, didn’t know how.

She was scared. Confused. Unsure.

“I’m right here to catch you, Libby,” he thickly continued, his lips brushing her ear, his breath caressing her senses, his hands working their magic. “I won’t let you fly away, lass. Let go,” he tenderly urged, pushing one finger deeply inside her.

And Libby obeyed in a mindless storm that started deep inside her and spiraled outward and upward and escaped from her throat in a cry of pure pleasure. She convulsed around him, and Michael leaned over her, pulled her mouth to his, and captured her scream.

It lasted forever, this wondrous thing, and Libby clung desperately to his hand as pulse after sensuous pulse of pleasure ran through her trembling body.

“Sometimes a woman’s scream is like music,” he whispered, kissing her, gentling her with tender caresses, slowly bringing her back to reality.

Libby melted against him with a shuddering sigh, willing her pounding heart to slow down. She finally opened her eyes, blinked at the fire, and blushed all the way to her socks.

Michael laughed, lifting her with him as he stood. Before she could catch her breath, he swept her into his arms and set them down on the couch, cradling her on his lap in a tender cuddle. Libby attempted to pull her blouse closed, but he stilled her action, instead using his broad, warm palm and strong, masculine fingers to cover her breasts.

Libby’s blush intensified.

His smile turned smug. “That was your first time,” he said with undisguised male satisfaction.

Not quite sure how to respond to that statement and still trying to gather her wits back, Libby remained mute.

He absently caressed the side of her breast. “And that, lass, answers some of my questions but creates a few more.”

Libby still couldn’t find her voice. It might be because her heart was still racing a mile a minute or because she was sprawled across Michael like a shameless hussy. Or maybe she was afraid that if she opened her mouth she would scream again—and it wouldn’t sound like music this time.

“How is it that a woman your age hasn’t ever experienced an orgasm?”

Libby flinched at his blunt question and finally found her voice. “I guess the foreplay is over.”

He nodded. And smiled crookedly. “It is for now,” he drawled. “The moment I realized you were a virgin, I completely disgraced myself like a boy of ten.”

“I am not a virgin, Michael. I’ve had plenty of boyfriends.”

His nod was slower this time. “But you are, lass. Or were,” he corrected. “Maybe not technically,” he quickly added. “But emotionally. It isn’t really sex unless both people involved are completely satisfied.”

“Then what is it? Really?”

He shrugged. “Use,” he clarified. “Or abuse, more likely, when one party is slaked and the other is left… hanging.”

Michael the philosopher was back.

Libby decided she preferred the sex god.

She tried to pull her blouse closed again, and this time Michael helped her by pulling it over her shoulders. Libby rose to her feet, buttoned herself up, and fastened her pants.

Then she just stood there, staring at the fire.

What was she supposed to do now? What did a woman say to a man who had just given her the experience of true passion for the first time in her life?

Thank you? I hope we can do this again soon?

Like maybe right now? Only this time, could we both please get naked and actually… do it?

Libby turned at the sound of papers being shuffled and found Michael reading her lists.

Heat climbed into her face when she realized exactly which page he had stopped at.

His gaze went to the side table, and he picked up her pencil and started writing. She leaned over to see, but he quickly shuffled the pages and started writing again.

Libby spun on her socked heel and walked to the kitchen on rubbery legs. She went to the fridge and took out the bottle of wine Grace MacKeage had thoughtfully included with the groceries, then started rummaging through the drawers for a corkscrew. She found one, but the damned thing refused to work properly. So she rummaged through the drawers again, looking for something either to pry the cork out of the bottle or to drive it down inside.

The wine bottle was suddenly lifted out of her hand and replaced by her pages of lists.

Michael leaned against the counter, crossed his feet at his ankles, and slowly turned the suddenly obedient corkscrew into the bottle.

He stopped to use one finger to tap the top page in her hand, then went back to work on the wine. “When ya go shopping for new clothes, buy a blaze orange jacket,” he said.

“And spend the extra money for Gore-Tex boots. Nothing freezes a person quicker than wet feet.”

Libby stared at her list and saw thatbirth control had been crossed out and thatblaze orange jacket andwaterproof boots had been added in neat, dark letters.ATV also had been crossed out, and the wordsnowmobile was written beside it.

“Rifle season begins tomorrow,” Michael said. He turned and opened a cupboard as he spoke. “So don’t step outside this house without wearing orange.” He took down two tumblers, set them on the counter, and filled them with wine. “Not even to go to your mailbox. Blaze orange is necessary from the first part of November to mid-December.”

Libby looked down at her list again, but her chin was lifted by Michael’s finger to gain back her attention. “And if I ever catch you outside without wearing orange, lass, I will personally make you sorry you ever left California,” he said very softly, his eyes far more threatening than his words.

Libby was more curious than intimidated. “What do you mean by rifle season?”

“Deer hunting.”

“Oh.” She was buying a lot of orange clothes, then, even orange socks. “Why did you crossbirth control off my list? Are you trying to get Robbie a brother or sister?” she asked, deciding it was time to rattle his calm. The man was acting as if what had just happened in the living room were an everyday occurrence.