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.”
He ducked his head, and his cheeks reddened above his neatly trimmed beard. “I’ve come here this morning to apologize for my behavior the other day,” he said contritely. He looked at her hair. “I was just startled, is all.”
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