Текст книги "Wedding The Highlander"

Автор книги: Джанет Чапмен

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Good God. She’d just had her first orgasm.

But Michael didn’t appear rattled by her question, only amused. “I’ll take care of the birth control,” he told her.

Libby shook her head. “Since this is a consequence I would have to live with, I’ll take care of it.”

He looked as if he would argue, but instead he handed her one of the tumblers of wine.

He clinked their glasses together and nodded. “Then we’ll consider the affair begun,” he said, his eyes shining with what Libby could only describe as possession.

And that alarmed her, almost as much as his ability to make her body react in ways she hadn’t thought possible. She was thirty-one years old, and she felt sixteen, like a reckless, infatuated, trembling teenager experiencing her first case of lust. Libby took a large gulp of her wine, coughed for a good minute, and looked down at her list through blurry eyes.

“Why… ” She coughed again and started over. “Why did you cross outATV and write insnowmobile?” she asked, deciding to move onto safer ground. “I want an ATV.”

He shook his head. “You’d only have another week to use it, at best. ATVs are no good in the snow, and they’re not allowed on the groomed snowmobile trails.”

“Do you have a snowmobile?”

“Aye. And so does Robbie.”

Libby wanted to ask if the boy wore a helmet when he rode his snowmobile.

“And we both wear helmets,” he told her before she could work up the nerve, his mouth lifting in a knowing grin. “Only suicidal fools ride without them. And they keep us warm.”

Libby took another drink of her wine, slower this time.

“I see you bought Callum’s truck,” he said, nodding toward the attached garage. “You’ll be glad for the four-wheel drive this winter. And for its size. This is the main road leading out of the deep woods, and Monday through Friday you’ll meet loaded logging trucks. So stay alert, and don’t ever swerve again for an animal. Your life is more precious than theirs.”

“Is it because I’m nearly the size of your son that you feel this need to lecture me as if I were a child?” she asked, tossing her lists on the counter and downing the rest of her wine.

Michael moved so quickly Libby barely had time to finish swallowing before she was picked up, spun around, and set on the counter. He took the tumbler out of her hand and put it in the sink, then stood between her thighs, pulling her firmly against him.

“No,” he said with maddening calm. “It’s because I want you to live long enough for us to mess up your sheets.”

She couldn’t argue with that. Libby framed both her hands over his face and stared into his gleaming eyes. “I don’t suppose you have some birth control in your pocket?” she asked.

“Nay, lass,” he said, shaking his head within her hands.

“And I doubt what I have at home is any good. It’s at least a couple of years old.”

Her surprise must have shown on her face, because her hands moved with his grin. He pulled her hips more firmly against him and leaned forward to kiss her gaping mouth.

“Are ya thinking I’m in the habit of having affairs?” he asked just inches from her lips.

“I… I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

“Then think on this, lass. I’ve loved two women, and they both died, each taking a good part of me with her. All I have left is just enough for my son. Look only for passion from me, Libby, because that’s all I can give you.”

“It’s enough, Michael,” she whispered, pulling his face close so she could kiss him.

He met her mouth with plenty of the passion he’d promised, and Libby thought her hormones were going to erupt into another riot. But he suddenly stopped and stepped back.

He grabbed his jacket off one of the kitchen chairs, gave her one last heated look, and left as quietly as he had arrived.

Libby stared at the curtain settling back into place against the closing door. She covered her racing heart with one hand and reached for the wine bottle with the other. After a long, healthy swig straight from the bottle, Libby let her gaze travel around the kitchen.

It seemed larger now that Michael had left.

It was definitely more peaceful. The man didn’t have to say a word, make a sound, or even move for her to feel as if she were standing in the middle of a brewing storm.

Libby took another swig of wine and continued to look around the silent kitchen, her gaze finally landing on a small box sitting on the table.

It hadn’t been there an hour ago.

She jumped down from the counter, walked to the table, and picked up the envelope lying on top of the box. She unsealed it, took out the paper, and read the note written in not-so-neat letters painstakingly formed by a young hand.

Dear Libby,

I was thinking you might like to do this small job for me, since you’re an artist and are good with your hands. I’m working on a special Christmas gift for my father, but this part of it is too hard for me to do. Could you please paint the wordTàirneanaicheon the small wooden board? I put some gold paint in the box, too. Don’t worry, I’m not asking you for a favor, just giving you a job so you can earn money until your studio is open. I will have Papa compensate you, but don’t tell him what it’s for, just how much you’re charging.

Thank you,

Robbie MacBain

Libby read the note twice, then broke the piece of tape on the box and opened it. Sure enough, there was a small wooden board inside, about six inches long. Libby picked it up and looked at the note again.Tàirneanaiche? What kind of word was that?

She looked back at the wood. It appeared to be a plaque of some sort, its corners scrolled inward and a beveled line running along all four edges. The plaque was made from a soft wood, like pine or hemlock, and had been carefully sanded.

What wasTàirneanaiche?

Libby reread the note, looking for a clue to what the word meant or what the plaque was for. But Robbie was being secretive about his father’s Christmas gift.

And then she came to the part where he promised his father would compensate her, and Libby laughed out loud.

Hadn’t Michael just paid her in full?

She stuck the note inside the box and carried it into her bedroom. She set it on the dresser, thinking about Robbie and Michael’s relationship. The boy obviously trusted his father to bring the box to her without peeking inside. And she decided she wanted Robbie’s trust, too, and would do his little job and keep his secret. All she’d ask for in compensation was the meaning ofTàirneanaiche.

Libby undressed and slipped into the heavy flannel gown she’d grabbed from her grandmother Bea’s farm when she had gone to pack up her equipment. She crawled under the bedcovers, tucked her arms under her head, and fell asleep with the smile of a woman who had finally lost her virginity.

Chapter Ten

Libby opened the door,stepped onto the porch, and stared at the wonderland surrounding her. Frost had settled on everything overnight and gleamed in the bright morning sunlight like polished diamonds. One of the hens was out, pecking at the ground beside the coop, puffed up like a strutting turkey in defense of the cold.

Libby was just stepping off the porch to give chase to the escaped bird when she heard the gunshot. She quickly stepped back and looked toward TarStone Mountain as the shot echoed down the mountainside like a crack of thunder.

Rifle season.

Which meant that some poor deer was up there right now, running for its life.

Libby also ran, worried for her own life, back into the house. She went to the bathroom and pulled a bright yellow towel off the rack. It wasn’t blaze orange, but she couldn’t think of any animal that had curb-yellow fur. She wrapped the towel around her shoulders like a shawl and stepped back onto the porch. Ducking her head like a soldier being shot at, she ran across the yard and bolted into the chicken coop for safety.

Startled by her sudden arrival, the hens went nuts, flapping down from their roosts in a cacophony of frantic squawks and flying sawdust. Waving away the choking dust, Libby opened the bag of feed Ian had provided and filled the pan on the floor. She checked the water dispenser next and poked the skin of ice off the top. Two birds immediately started drinking.

Libby turned to the nesting boxes and peeked inside the three empty ones. She found only one broken egg and lifted it out along with some of the straw. She set the mess in an empty bucket by her feet and then turned her attention to the hen sitting in the fourth nesting box.

The hen stared back, unblinking, and lashed out when Libby reached under her to feel for an egg.

“Ouch, you ungrateful biddy,” Libby hissed, rubbing her hand on her thigh. “I’m going to let the hunters use you for target practice if you don’t quit pecking me,” she said, glaring at all the hens, including them in her threat.

“You girls give me eggs, and I feed you. That’s how it works around here.”

They weren’t listening. Half of them were eating, and the others were drinking. There was a faint sound at the coop door, and Libby walked over and opened it. The escaped hen came running inside and joined her coop mates at the feed pan.

Deciding she wasn’t going to find her breakfast in there that morning, Libby stepped outside, made sure the door was securely closed, and pulled her bright yellow towel over her head. She ran back to the house and onto the porch, breathing a sigh of relief when she didn’t hear any more gunshots.

Talk about strange, having to worry about going outside her own home. She had never considered hunting season in her decision to move to New England.

She wasn’t a vegetarian. She liked meat. But she wasn’t sure she could eat a cute little deer. She could eat one or two of her chickens, though, if they kept pecking her.

Libby hung her towel on the peg beside the door and went to the bathroom to wash her hands while she thought about the busy day ahead. She had a million things to do, and her checkbook was going to take another big hit.

She considered adding a new bed to her list. She wasn’t keen on messing up Mary’s sheets with Mary’s former lover in Mary’s old bed. It was bad enough she was living in Mary’s house.

Libby quickly brushed her teeth and fluffed her hair. She gathered up her purse and lists and headed into the garage. She was going straight to the Dolans’ store and buying waterproof boots, thick gloves to protect her hands from pecking chickens, and a blaze orange jacket and hat.

She opened the garage door, walked to her new truck and opened its door, and then tried to remember how she had climbed into the damn thing the night before for her test drive.

Oh, yeah. Callum had kindly lifted her in. Then he had kindly suggested she have running boards installed. And he had not-so-kindly laughed the whole time.

Libby had met his wife, Charlotte, and their handsome son, Duncan.

It took her several tries to get into the truck before Libby finally conceded defeat. She looked around the garage and found a wooden crate, then stood it on end to use as a step. Once inside the truck, she reached down and picked up the crate, setting it on the floor on the passenger side. She’d need it again if she wanted to drive the truck home.

Libby spent the next three minutes adjusting the seat, thankful that it was electric and moved up as well as forward. Still, Callum also had suggested—kindly—that she tape a block of wood to the gas pedal so she could reach it.

She fastened her seat belt and started the truck, smiling at the sound of the powerful engine as she looked around the interior. The Suburban was large enough to hold a dance in. Libby shook her head and laughed at herself. Who would have thought, just a month ago, that she would be living in Maine, in the mountains, driving a truck almost as large as her town house?

But Libby quickly sobered. She was guilty of cowardice, of turning her back on her work. But mostly, she was guilty of not wanting a gift that could help people.

But couldn’t that gift become her Midas touch? Was she supposed to heal everyone she came into contact with? Where would it end? When she became a one-woman freak show, with hordes of people seeking her out, hounding her, petitioning, begging?

Libby tried to reason with her unsettling thoughts. As long as she kept her gift a secret, she was safe. All anyone in Pine Creek needed to know was that she was a jewelry maker from California. Michael and Grace would keep her secret, she was sure. Neither one of them seemed overly bothered by her unwillingness to confide in them about her past.

And the fact that she trusted them amazed Libby.

She had learned, as early as med school, to be careful around the people she worked with. Oh, most in medicine were dedicated, but no matter how sincere their intentions, workplace politics were always a factor.

Like her competition with James Kessler over the grant they both wanted. Money and prestige always complicated things.

Their fathers had been colleagues and good friends, and Libby and James had grown up knowing each other. Though James had been two years ahead of Libby, they’d gone to medical school together and had both found positions at Cedar-Sinai.

And they were both after the same grant to develop a new method of minimally invasive microsurgery.

Or they were, up until last week, when the bottom had dropped out of Libby’s world.

Now she just wanted… hell, she didn’t know what she wanted. Peace? Understanding?

Her life back?

Or did she want a new life here?

If she wanted an answer to that question, it was time she started exploring the possibility. And she would begin with Dolan’s Outfitter Store and go from there.

Libby put the truck in reverse and backed up. She turned in the yard and started toward the road but slammed on her brakes when a large tractor-trailer rig, loaded to the sky with logs, came racing past the end of her driveway. The driver, apparently not the least bit worried about sharing the road with anyone, was looking at her, smiling and waving.

He raised one arm and pulled on the air horn, giving Libby a friendly, deafening honk that trailed after him in a cloud of dust long after he’d vanished.

Just as soon as she saw Michael again, she was going to stand on a chair and apologize to the man. He hadn’t been kidding when he warned her about the dangers of her new home.

Maybe she should bake him something. A cake or a batch of cookies. Or dinner. She could cook a nice dinner and invite Michael and Robbie and John Bigelow over tomorrow.

Libby reached into her purse and found her list of things to buy. She added a large roasting hen and smiled in satisfaction. She’d show the packaged bird to her girls in the coop before she cooked it and warn them that if they didn’t quit pecking her, they’d be joining it in the oven.

With her plans firmly made, Libby checked for traffic up and down the road and finally headed into town.

“You gotta be looking in the kids’ section, missy,” Harry Dolan repeated for the third time, trying to lead her toward the back wall of the store. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna fit you over here.”

Libby refused to budge. She was too busy rolling up the sleeves on the blaze orange sweatshirt she was wearing. But the price tag, as big as a book and probably costing more than the garment it was advertising, kept getting in the way.

Harry’s wife, Irisa, was trying to help. Libby could only make out every other word the woman said, and those were so heavily accented that she couldn’t decide if Irisa were trying to help or trying to get her to take the sweatshirt off.

Dammit, she was not shopping in the kids’ section. She was old enough to have children who should be shopping there.

“This should fit,” Dwayne Dolan said, walking up from the back wall with a sweatshirt in his hand. “And it’s got a hood just like that one.”

“I don’t want a sweatshirt that fits,” Libby stubbornly explained. “I want to layer it over a sweater.”

Dwayne stopped in front of her and held the sweatshirt against her shoulders, completely ignoring her protest. His unwavering smile was crooked behind a week’s growth of whiskers, and he smelled funny. Like pickles or something.

“You can still layer this one, Miss Hart,” he said, tossing the sweatshirt over his shoulder and reaching for the zipper on the one she was wearing.

Libby stepped back, and Irisa came to her rescue, shooing the two men away, pulling the smaller sweatshirt off Dwayne’s shoulder as he left.

“I think I know,” Irisa said in broken English, nodding sympathetically. “Not girl.

Woman.”

Libby conceded to Irisa’s smile. She pushed up the sleeves on the sweatshirt she was wearing to find her hands and unzipped it and took it off. The damn thing came down to her knees, and she knew she looked ridiculous. So she slipped into the smaller one that Irisa was holding out for her, zipped it up, and wiggled her arms to make sure it was roomy enough.

She was looking at herself in the mirror when Irisa plopped a blaze orange hat onto her head. Libby’s humor quickly returned, and she laughed out loud.

Now she really looked ridiculous.

As if she should buy a gun and go shoot something.

The hat was made of felt and had a brim all the way around it, with a matching orange ribbon that added a bit of style. Libby tugged on the front, giving the hat a rakish tilt.

It was pulled from her head and replaced by another, this one a northwoods version of a baseball cap. It was orange and black checkered, with ear flaps and a strap that fastened under her chin. The entire cap was lined with sheepskin and felt as warm as toast.

It made her look like Elmer Fudd.

Irisa plopped another hat onto Libby’s head, this one knit. It was also blaze orange and had a small pom-pom on top. But it was pulled from her head just as Libby was trying to adjust it and replaced by the felt hat.

Libby looked up into the mirror and saw a red wool jacket standing behind her, covering a broad chest. She recognized the jacket. And the chest.

Libby whirled and came nose to button with Michael. She looked up, having to push her hat back in order to smile at him.

He smiled back. “Now ya look like a Mainer,” he told her, tapping the end of her nose.

“All you’re lacking is a gun.”

“I heard a shot this morning, up on TarStone.”

“Aye. That was me, lass.”

Libby stepped back in surprise. “You were shooting at a deer? But why?”

His smile disappeared. “So we can eat this winter.”

“And did you… was your hunt successful?”

His eyes softened at her obvious distress. “Aye. But you needn’t worry, Libby. It was a clean kill. The buck was dead before he even hit the ground.”

It took all of her willpower not to flinch. And a good deal of effort to smile.

Michael reached up and gently brushed her cheek with his knuckles. “It’s a natural act, lass,” he said softly. “Man is a hunter, and deer are prey. And that’s a fact society will never change, no matter how civilized we think we’ve become.”

“I know. And I eat meat like most people. It’s just that hunting is so… it’s so direct.”

“Given a choice, would you rather be a steer in a stock-yard or a deer running wild and free?” he asked. “If you’re going to end up on someone’s table anyway, which life would you choose?”

“The deer.”

“Aye. So would I. And so would the buck I killed this morning, Libby. Please try to remember that when you bite into one of his steaks this winter. Have ya ever had venison?”

“No. Will you give me a steak?”

“Aye. And a roast or two, if ya want.”

“Oh,” Libby said, suddenly remembering her earlier decision. “I’m cooking a chicken for supper tomorrow and thought you and Robbie and John would like to come over and share it with me.”

For the life of her, Libby could not read the expression that suddenly came into Michael’

s eyes. “Are ya stuffing the chicken?” he asked thickly, stepping closer. “And making gravy and mashed potatoes?”

Libby stepped closer herself, nodding. “I was also thinking of baking an apple pie for dessert.”

Michael took hold of her shoulders and leaned down until his nose was nearly touching hers. “Ya bake an apple pie, lass, and I’ll bring the ice cream. And a good bottle of wine.”

His voice was guttural, almost seductive, and Libby couldn’t decide if his passion was directed at her or at the meal she was planning.

A giggle sounded beside them, and Libby looked over to find Irisa, her hand covering her smiling mouth, staring at them.

Michael straightened, and Libby quickly turned away to hide her flaming face. She took off the hat and jacket, handed them to Irisa, gathered up her purse, and dug inside it for her list of things to buy.

“What time?” Michael asked.

Libby looked up. “What time for what?”

“Supper. What time do you want us to come over? And thank you for including John.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t think of not inviting John. I’m anxious to meet him. What time is good for you?”

“Six.”

“Then six it is,” Libby agreed, walking to the counter with her list.

Michael followed. “Did ya get the box Robbie sent?” he asked, stopping her before she could reach Harry and Dwayne. “If ya don’t wish to do whatever it is he wants, the boy will understand.”

Libby smiled ever so sweetly. “The note said you’d compensate me,” she whispered, so only he could hear. “And I’m warning you, I don’t come cheap.”

Michael raised one eyebrow and looked at Libby so intensely it was a wonder she didn’t burst into flames. She quickly stepped back, trying to push down the blush climbing her cheeks. What had possessed her to say such a thing?

“Leysa just came in,” Dwayne said, walking up to them.

“She can show you the storefront now. Mornin’, MacBain.”

With one last heated look, Michael turned and nodded to Dwayne. “Have those .270

shells come in yet?” he asked. “And I’m ready to order that knife we talked about for Robbie. Are ya sure it will be here in time for Christmas?”

Libby tried to stifle her gasp, she really did. But it came out anyway. Michael looked down at her, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed with weary patience.

Libby held up her hand before he could speak. “Don’t say anything. I don’t want to know why you’re buying a child a knife for Christmas.”

Taking her at her word, Michael turned and followed Dwayne to the counter, leaving Libby to gape at his back.

Dammit. She did want to know. Why was he buying Robbie such a dangerous weapon?

And what kind of Christmas present was a knife, anyway? The boy should be getting toys, a Walkman, a bike, or socks and sweaters—not something he could maim himself with.

Irisa drew Libby’s attention and introduced her to Leysa, Dwayne’s wife. Leysa was maybe ten years older than Libby, a good foot taller, with lots of long, wavy hair held away from her face by two beautiful wooden barrettes.

She was cradling a young infant in the crook of her arm.

“My sister-law, Leysa,” Irisa said. “Her job to care for store. She deal you the rent.”

Libby couldn’t contain her curiosity any longer. Both women were absolutely beautiful, neat as an operating room, and such unlikely wives for Harry and Dwayne that she simply had to know more about them. “Hello, Leysa. I’m Libby,” she said, nodding as she lightly touched the sleeping infant’s hand. “Are you and Irisa from Russia?”

Leysa smiled warmly and held out her child for Libby to take. Surprised but delighted, Libby carefully cradled the baby in one arm and fingered its wrinkled little chin with the other.

“I am Ukrainian,” Leysa told her in heavily accented but perfect English. “And Irisa is from Croatia. We came here four years ago, after meeting Harry and Dwayne at a party in Moscow,” she continued at Libby’s questioning look.

“They were searching for wives, and we… ” She looked at Irisa and smiled, then back at Libby. “We were searching for husbands.”

“We pick good men,” Irisa added. “And now live in beautiful place and are happy.” She patted her flat belly. “I give Harry a son next spring.”

Libby was speechless. They’d met Harry and Dwayne at a party in Moscow? She’d seen a story on television about such parties, where American men would travel to Russia or Asia to find wives.

“Am I holding a boy or a girl?” Libby asked, looking down at the infant in her arms.

“A girl,” Leysa said. “She is named Rose, after our husbands’ mother.”

“She’s beautiful,” Libby murmured, walking to the counter and stopping beside Michael. “Look at what I’ve got,” she whispered. “Isn’t she precious?”

Michael set down the catalogue he was leafing through and turned his attention to Rose.

He reached over and picked up the infant, cradling her against his chest, covering her head with one broad hand, and burying his nose in her hair.

Libby went weak in the knees at the sight of Michael handling the child with such confidence and genuine affection. And Leysa, instead of being horrified to see her daughter in the arms of the huge man, was pulling Libby toward the front door of the store.

“Come,” she said. “I’ll show you the space we have to rent, and you can decide if it will suit you.”

“But… but what about Rose?”

Leysa kept walking. “She’ll scream her head off if I take her away from Michael now,”

she said, turning to smile at Libby. “I think she is in love with him. He can’t come here without picking her up. I only have to watch that he doesn’t try to sneak her home.” She leaned over and whispered, “I think Michael is in love with her as well.”

Not only did Libby’s legs feel like noodles, but her heart skipped several beats. She looked over her shoulder as Leysa pulled her along and saw that Michael now had Rose nestled against his shoulder and was rubbing a lazy hand over her back as he studied the catalogue again.

He was a towering mountain of a man who could kill a deer in the morning and cuddle an infant a few hours later. He could walk into a room and take her breath away, say something to send her temper flying, and make love to her as if the world would end tomorrow. He thrilled her, inflamed her, and sent her hormones into overdrive with just a look.

And his warning the night he’d come to her room to scare her away finally hit Libby with the force of a locomotive.

Yes, she would be wise to be very afraid.

Chapter Eleven

Libby just didn’t want toget out of bed. She snuggled deeper into the warm quilt and covered her cold nose with the blanket. She had stayed up past midnight to paint Robbie’s plaque, then fallen into bed like a zombie.

Coffee wouldn’t help. Libby doubted even aspirin would do the trick. Two or three fresh scrambled eggs might work, along with a thick slab of toast from the loaf of bread she had bought at the bakery conveniently located right next-door to her new studio.

She’d run into Michael again coming out of the bakery. The man’s arms had been loaded down with bread and cakes and a bag that looked to have two dozen cookies in it. He’d been chewing on a doughnut at the time and had only nodded and held the door open for her with his foot.

Libby threw back the covers with a moan and stumbled into the bathroom like an old woman. She had another hundred million things to do today, not the least of which was cooking dinner. Thank heavens she had seen some old cookbooks on the shelf in the kitchen. It had been a few years since she’d baked an apple pie.

Libby turned on the shower and waited until the room warmed up with steam before she stepped under the water, letting the driving spray beat the kinks out and the eucalyptus shampoo wash the fog from her brain. In half an hour, she was dressed in her new blaze orange jacket and hat and was ready to face the girls in the coop—this morning, she was wearing blaze orange gloves to protect her hands from striking beaks.

Libby was surprised to find seven eggs in the nesting boxes. It was like Christmas morning, seeing those seven perfectly formed brown ovals just sitting there, waiting for her to collect them. Ian had warned her not to expect any for maybe a week, until the hens had settled down from their move.

But she had seven eggs. She felt like the richest woman in the world.

With her treasures carefully stowed in her pockets, Libby slowly walked back to the house but stopped in the middle of the driveway to stare at Pine Lake.

And her wealth suddenly increased tenfold.

A sense of rightness, of peace and contentment, settled over Libby like a warm blanket of security. She could feel the strength of TarStone Mountain at her back, as she drank in the beauty of the lake cradled in the valley below.

This was as real as it got.

It was good that she’d come here. From this place of strength, she would be able to deal with her gift. She would learn its parameters and begin to understand it. From here, with the support of these good people, she would accept what she could not change and embrace it for the miracle it was.

For the first time in almost two weeks, Libby felt balanced. And blessed instead of cursed. Something had driven her search, guiding her computer to find this home in Pine Creek.

Grammy Bea?

Or a young boy with a plan?

“It’s a mighty fine view, ain’t it?”

Libby whirled, then had to scramble to catch the egg that came flying out of her pocket.

She bumped it instead and watched as the tiny missile sailed through the air and landed with a sickening plop against Father Daar’s chest.

Both horrified speechless, they stared at each other in shock. Libby felt her cheeks warm and quickly pulled off her gloves and used them to wipe the mess off his jacket.

The old priest took the gloves from her and stepped back, brushing his own chest.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Father. You startled me.”

“Aye,” he agreed, handing back her soiled gloves. “And I’m wearing my penance.” He looked at her suspiciously.

“Ya got any more eggs ya’re wanting to throw? ’Cause I’m thinking they’d be better off in my belly instead of on it.”

The man was looking for breakfast. He had a lot of nerve, after being so rude to her the other day.

“I have six more,” she told him, tucking her hands in her pockets, letting him worry about what she intended to do with them.

He lifted one bushy eyebrow at her. “Are ya a Christian woman, Libby Hart?”

“Sometimes,” she said, pointedly looking at the white collar around his neck. “When people act Christianly toward me.”