“I have to go.”

She edged out of his embrace.

“Shanna.”

“No,” she said firmly. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t deny it.”

“I’m not denying anything. I’m saying we are not doing this again. Ever.”

“Why?”

“Because we don’t fit, jive, dance, you name it.”

“Dance?”

“Compatibility, Mike. Admit it. We seldom agree. We live at opposite ends of the social scale. You’re my employer, and—” her voice rose on the last reason “—we don’t even like each other.”

“You don’t like me?”

“I like you,” she said, her heart sore. “Very much.” Too much.

Dear Reader,

We’re smack in the middle of summer, which can only mean long, lazy days at the beach. And do we have some fantastic books for you to bring along! We begin this month with a new continuity, only in Special Edition, called THE PARKS EMPIRE, a tale of secrets and lies, love and revenge. And Laurie Paige opens the series with Romancing the Enemy. A schoolteacher who wants to avenge herself against the man who ruined her family decides to move next door to the man’s son. But things don’t go exactly as planned, as she finds herself falling…for the enemy.

Stella Bagwell continues her MEN OF THE WEST miniseries with Her Texas Ranger, in which an officer who’s come home to investigate a murder fins complications in the form of the girl he loved in high school. Victoria Pade begins her NORTHBRIDGE NUPTIALS miniseries, revolving around a town famed for its weddings, with Babies in the Bargain. When a woman hoping to reunite with her estranged sister finds instead her widowed husband and her children, she winds up playing nanny to the whole crew. Can wife and mother be far behind? THE KENDRICKS OF CAMELOT by Christine Flynn concludes with Prodigal Prince Charming, in which a wealthy playboy tries to help a struggling caterer with her business and becomes much more than just her business partner in the process. Brand-new author Mary J. Forbes debuts with A Forever Family, featuring a single doctor dad and the woman he hires to work for him. And the men of the CHEROKEE ROSE miniseries by Janis Reams Hudson continues with The Other Brother, in which a woman who always contend her handsome neighbor as one of her best friends suddenly finds herself looking at him in a new light.

Happy reading! And come back next month for six new fabulous books, all from Silhouette Special Edition.

Gail Chasan

Senior Editor

A Forever Family
Mary J. Forbes

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Gary: You taught me to not only dream, but to believe. To Kristie and Ryan: Your faith in me is astounding. I love you all beyond comprehension.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

Thank you to Dr. Franky Mah for his expertise in emergency and medical care. Any errors are purely mine, not his. Also, a huge thank-you to Cindy Procter-King for hauling me up each time I fell and scraped my writing fingers.

MARY J. FORBES

grew up on a farm in Alberta amidst horses, cattle (Holsteins included), crisp hay and broad blue skies. As a child, she drew and wrote about her surroundings and in sixth grade composed her first story about a lame little pony. Since those days, she has worked as a reporter and photographer on a small-town newspaper and has written and published short fiction.

Today, Mary—a teacher by profession—lives in beautiful British Columbia with her husband and two children. A romantic by nature, she loves working along the ocean shoreline, sitting by the firs on snowy or rainy evenings and two-stepping around the dance floor to a good country song—all with her own real-life hero, of course.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

He looked the way a man would, catching a woman’s scent.

Except he wasn’t a man, but a horse. A red stallion. One that had caught her scent. He raised his angular chin a notch, dark eyes skeptical, as she approached the long, narrow paddock.

His muscled quarter-horse haunches quivered. In arrogant defiance, he tossed his head.

Shanna McKay took another step toward him. Flee or charge, big fella?

She wasn’t afraid. And knew he sensed that.

Whatever it took, she wanted the horse’s owner to see she loved big, domestic animals. When her hand caressed the stallion’s coat, she wanted the owner to recognize her skill and knowledge.

Her steps slowed.

Manure, dust and cut clover tracked through the late June air. A fly whirred past her face. The stallion’s lips tightened, its ears flattened. He stood transfixed.

She held out a hand. “Hey, big boy.”

Nose lifting higher, his eyes widened.

“What the hell are you doing?”

At the thundering voice the stallion galloped away, its elegant sorrel head swinging side to side, its tail glinting in the westerly sun like a sheaf of prairie grain.

Shanna darted a look over her shoulder and considered high-tailing it across the pasture to join her equine partner. The man standing opposite the gate was not who she’d expected. All six-feet-plus of him in tailored dark trousers and linen shirt, he stared at her as if she’d called his mother a foul name.

“Oh.” She purged the instinct to set a hand to her throat the way Jane Eyre might have done with Mr. Rochester. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Obviously.” He opened the gate and stalked toward her. “What’re you doing rubbing noses with an animal you don’t know?”

“I was—” If the animal she’d surveyed moments ago had taken on a human persona, it would have been this man—from his dense, saddle-burnished hair to his spit-and-shine loafers. “I was introducing myself to him.”

“He bites.”

“It’s all right, I know horses.” This man couldn’t be the foreman, not dressed like that. Was he the M. Nelson from the newspaper ad?

“You know horses. Huh.” His chilled gray eyes cut to the stallion watching them from the middle of the small pasture, red-gold on jade-green. “You’re out of your league with him, miss.”

“Shanna. Shanna McKay. For what it’s worth, I’ve lived around horses most of my life.” She looked at him pointedly, considered her options and, as usual, tossed them aside. “I know to approach with caution and a soft voice the first time.”

The man’s eyes cut back to her. A small pock to the right of his upper lip whitened. “Are you saying I didn’t? For what it’s worth, Ms. McKay, I’m not completely ignorant when it comes to approaching stallions, or any horse for that matter.”

“Know what, I was about to leave. It was nice meeting you.” This particular job she did not need. There were others. Dammit, there had to be. Jobs where people were less abrasive and the money-men more congenial.

She stepped past him.

“Just a minute.” He blocked her path. “Why are you here?”

Ignoring his knife-edged cheekbones and grim jaw, she looked square into the steel of his eyes. “I came about the job advertised in the paper.”

The man blinked once, clear shock on his face. “You want to milk cows?”

If it meant keeping a roof over her brother’s head and money in his college fund. She hiked her chin. “I have experience.”

He scanned her body. “A little slip like you? Shoving around thousand-pound cows?” A soft chuckle. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m not a slip. I’m five eight and weigh—”

“One-twenty.”

Her turn to blink.

“I’m a doctor. I know the human body.”

He was…Michael Rowan? Top surgeon at Blue Springs General? Well, no doubt he knew the female body best of all, then. With that face, he probably had a different girlfriend every weekend.

“You need to eat more,” he continued, jerking her rumination off balance. “You’re at least fifteen pounds underweight.”

“Excuse me?” So she didn’t eat properly half the time. He didn’t know her life. Didn’t know she slogged every night at her accounting courses. Of her need for a career, a stable source of income. Dr. Michael Rowan knew nothing about her.

His eyes softened abruptly. “I apologize. Bad habit I have, giving unwanted medical advice. Need to curb that.” A tiny smile altered the line at the edge of his mouth.

She nodded. “Just tell me where I can find M. Nelson.” In minutes she’d be out of his hair, out of his life.

“She’s out of town.”

“Your foreman’s a woman?”

“No foreman. My grandmother.” In a placid state his eyes were dull silver. “A combination of family names as well as ownership. I didn’t want the clinic staff hounded with a bunch of calls.” He tilted his head, a pleat between his black brows. “You were to answer the ad through The Blue Sentinel.”

Her face warmed. She had wanted to impact with charm, wit and intelligence. Face-to-face. Michael Rowan, she saw, was not a man easily impacted. “Well,” she said. “I’m probably late, anyway.” The ad had run in three issues of the biweekly paper.

He studied the horse in the distance. “How’d you know it was Rowan Dairy?”

“Word gets around.”

Weariness marked his eyes as he studied her. Scraping his hands down stubbled cheeks, he released pent-up air. “Again, my apologies.” He held out a hand. “Michael Rowan.” His fingers wrapped around hers, warm and firm. His look wrapped around her heart, cool and steady. She let go.

“I know. We went to the same high school.” The way his eyebrows took flight had her lips twitching. “I was beginning middle school when you graduated.”

“McKay… The name’s familiar. Have you been to the clinic?”

“I don’t get sick.”

“Live around here, then?”

“In Blue Springs.”

“I see.” He tucked his hands into the pockets of his black dress pants and looked at her as if he could see beyond her skin, into her body. Into her.

She turned toward the knapsack sitting in the dirt by the gate. Hoisting the bag to her shoulder, she said, “I need this job, Doctor Rowan. Are you hiring?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

His hands came free of their pockets. Dust scuffed his shoes as he walked toward her. “On your expertise.”

“Four years, three months.”

He opened the gate, held it. She passed through. An efficient tug, a thunk of the wooden bar and it closed behind them. “Come up to the house,” he said. “Might as well get this over with, right now.”

“Over with?”

A sigh. “When you’re applying for a job, Ms. McKay, the employer—me—needs to ask some questions. But, I’m not doing it with horse dung on my shoes.”

A tobacco-brown smudge clung to the side of his left loafer. Rolling her lips inward, she looked to the pasture where the stallion grazed, picture-perfect in the distance. I’m not afraid of you. Or your famous owner.

“Ms. McKay. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to eat tonight before I go to bed. I’ve had a long day.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I have a habit of—”

With a crisp turn, he strode off.

Daydreaming.

So much for conversation. She watched him go. Each cant of his succinct hips plied tiny creases into the fine, white shirt at his belt. He had those streamlined Tiger Woods buttocks. And long, long legs—which, at the moment, wolfed up ground.

The job, Shanna. You need the job. Remember that.

She hurried after him.

The trail wound through a hundred yards of spruce, cedar and birch. The trees blocked the barnyard from a two-story yellow farmhouse. Why hadn’t she noticed it before, this century-old Colonial—its tall windows and ample verandah strung with boxes of red and white geraniums overlooking paddock and pasture? No front lawn. Instead, a cornucopia of lush, leafy produce—beans, peas, onions, carrots, potatoes, squash and corn—fanned toward the pastures. Behind the house, the forested hill rose rapidly. She imagined its warm, emerald quilt of Douglas fir offered cozy vistas in bleaker seasons.

They crossed the driveway where the final rays of the day’s sun glossed a black Jeep Cherokee. Her dented two-toned silver pickup remained down at the barn where she’d parked it, drawn first to the farm’s animals instead of to its people.

The doctor walked down a flagstone path along the side of the house, to the rear door. There, from a cement stoop, he tossed his shoes to the grass. He held open the door. “Come in.”

Leaving her pack, she toed off her sandals and followed. The mudroom was neat and compact while the adjoining large, bright kitchen supported a greenhouse window she inherently loved.

The living section…

Oh, my.

A wood-beamed ceiling spanned a sunken room. Ebbing daylight spilled from wide, tall windows and warmed a bouquet of lemon oil. At the base of an oak staircase, hung a woman’s painted portrait. Her resolved, dark beauty emanated power.

“Ms. McKay?”

She jerked around. He stood in a small study, watching her. How long had he been waiting?

“Your home is lovely,” she told him, meaning it.

“Thank you.” He gestured to the den’s single leather chair. “Please. Sit down.”

From the rolltop desk he picked up a pen and a black notebook, then settled on the window seat, ankle on knee. Scribbling in the booklet, he waited until she eased onto the dough-soft seat where she kept her back straight, her feet planted, and her fingers loosely laced in her lap. She curbed the urge to touch the three staggered dream catchers swinging from her ears.

Confidence, Shanna.

“Where did you gain your dairy experience?”

“Lasser Farm.”

He nodded. “I know it.”

She imagined he did. The childless Lassers had called Washington’s Whatcom County home for twenty years. “I started working for Caleb and Estelle when I was fifteen.”

“You didn’t finish school?” He sounded a bit horrified.

She smiled. “Of course I graduated. My brother Jason and I boarded with the Lassers while my dad—”

She wanted to observe the doctor’s face. She knew why he’d offered her the chair. Shadows and light. He sat in the former, she sat in the latter.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“My dad was a saddle bronc rider. He followed the rodeo circuit.” Still does, like an old hound chasing rabbits in his sleep.

For a moment Michael Rowan remained silent, then he smiled, small and quick. It tempered the line of his jaw. Soothed his eyes. Doctor-to-patient kind, those eyes.

“Ah,” he said. “McKay. Of course. Your father assaulted an orderly a while back for making him go through a difficult therapeutic maneuver.”

No pity, Doctor. My father’s conduct no longer matters.

Liar.

She said, “Brent—my dad—cracked four ribs at the Cloverdale Rodeo up in British Columbia. The doctors ordered him not to ride that summer. He…he didn’t take it well.” True to form, he’d raved and cussed. Didn’t they know he’d lose six months of winnings? He was a cowboy, for Pete’s sake, a man tough as nails. A couple beat-up bones wouldn’t stop him, no sirree.

But in the end they had. At least for those six months.

She continued, “He, um, took a job with the Lassers.” Manna from heaven, when compared to the days—weeks—she and Jase had lived on stale cheese, chips and Krispy Kreme doughnuts. “Caleb developed angina that year and needed help.” Turned out the couple had helped her and Jase far more. Loving them on sight. Opening their home and hearts with grace and compassion. Raising them as Brent had not.

Dr. Rowan jotted notes. “How many cows were they milking?”

“Forty. Some years forty-five.”

“We have ninety-two. A small outfit compared to some, but…” He studied her face.

She squared her shoulders. “I can handle it.”

Again, he gave her a slow, visual once-over. A small burn flickered in her belly. She wanted to leave the chair, tell him to move the interview to the living room where she could read his dark, enigmatic eyes. Equal ground. Person to person. Aspirant to interviewer. Not this…this man-woman thing.

“How strong are you?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Can you lift a five-gallon bucket of oats?”

“Yes.”

When he made a point of studying her arms, her skin flashed with heat. She should have worn a long-sleeved blouse. Or a sweatshirt. What had she been thinking to pull on this silky white tank top and this flowery skirt? Hurry, that’s what. Hurry to look good. To impress the employer. To look professional.

Well, no amount of hurrying would get her wiry muscles or, for that matter, pretty feminine limbs. Sorry, Doctor. You’re stuck with these long, skinny ones.

Annoyed at her self-criticism and his scrutiny, she asked, “Do you think because I’m a woman I’m not suited for the job?”

His eyes whipped to hers. “It has nothing to do with you being a woman.”

Then why the fitness quiz? “I assure you, Doctor Rowan, I can handle a bucket of grain. And a few cud-chewers.”

Silence hung like a weight.

She stood. “Perhaps you should consider someone else.” A man. With gym muscles. “I’m sure you’ll be flooded with applicants before long.” There had to be other jobs. She’d spread her search city-wise. Out Bellingham way, if necessary.

“Please, sit down.”

“It’s all right. I understand your concern.”

“Please.”

A tight moment passed. With his face lifted, the window light refined the lines around his mouth. Within his beard shadow a tiny scar shot to focus. She wondered when he’d received it. She sat.

“Thank you,” he said.

Their eyes caught. In her womb she felt a little zing.

Thirty-one years, and no man had ever touched her deepest, secret refuge—a soft, vulnerable, misty-eyed place. Not her father, not her ex-husband Wade, not even Jase, her sweet-faced brother. Then along comes the good doctor—and he rattles its door on the first meeting. She looked away. “Who’s your milker now?”

“A fellow from Maple Falls. Think you might know him?”

She shook her head. “But cows are sensitive to their milker. If the person has a calm touch, they’ll produce their best. About eighty pounds a day per cow is a good standard.”

Dr. Rowan rubbed the back of his neck as though he’d dealt with myriad crises since dawn and job interviews were an annoying side note. “Ms. McKay, just for the record, I’m not interested in whether these animals produce. The man I hired after my sis—” He broke off, pulled in air. His hand trembled on the page. “The guy gave notice two weeks ago. Saturday’s his last day. You’re the first applicant with any decent experience.”

The first? She’d heard of the ad from Jason, who’d been scanning the Help Wanted section for mechanic work. After the ad’s third run, he’d read the blurb aloud. “Go for it, Shan. What’ve you got to lose?” What indeed?

“It’s been a while since I worked around livestock,” she explained now. “But you won’t get anyone more dedicated.”

“I’m sure. However, let’s get one thing straight. I don’t want you making demands on me about the cattle, or anything else. I don’t need you telling me how to handle them, coddle them, or…whatever. The place is for sale, which means before summer’s out I’m hoping to have the papers signed, sealed and delivered to another owner. In the meantime, all you need to do is milk those Holsteins. Clear?”

“Like spring water.”

Again, their eyes held. Again, the zing.

“Do you know gardening?” he asked.

“As in hoeing and weeding?”

“As in canning and freezing. You saw our vegetable patch. In five weeks or so it’ll need harvesting.”

August, the hottest time of the year. She’d be sure to buy a big-brimmed, straw hat. “Consider it done.”

“Thank you. There’ll be a bonus for the extra work.”

He pulled open a drawer near her knee and took out a checkbook. With his sleeves rolled to the elbow, she saw that his arms were solid, bread-brown, and stippled with hair. Like a farmer’s, not like those of a man feeling for lumps and tying off arteries.

With a flurry of slashes he wrote out a check. “You’ll need an advance to tide you over until payday which is bimonthly. Sunday will be your day off.”

She gaped at the amount. Far more than what she’d earned in a month as a bookkeeper for R/D Concrete before the layoffs. And in Blue Springs, R/D had been the company if one wanted sound work. The doctor must be desperate.

“It won’t bounce, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he said when she continued to stare at the money.

“I—” She swallowed, sat straighter. “I know that.”

“Good. There’s a retired farmer, Oliver Lloyd, who lives a couple miles down the road. He comes daily to clean the barns and tend to the cows and the land. We have roughly four hundred tillable acres in corn, oats, barley and alfalfa. He’ll assist you and milk on Sundays. When can you start?”

“Monday.”

“Fine. We begin at 4:30 a.m. Same time in the afternoon. Milking should take you no more than two hours tops. Any questions?”

With the salary he’d laid out? Unable to think, much less speak, she managed a “No.”

Without pause, he scribbled in the notebook. Thirty seconds passed. Forty.

Had she been dismissed? She read the check again. She should feel elated. She’d gotten the job. With a lucrative wage. For a few more months, Jason’s college fund and her night school accounting courses would stay intact.

So what was the problem?

Michael Rowan.

He intrigued, confused, and beguiled her into silly daydreams.

Get real, Shanna. The man wouldn’t look twice at you.

Staring at his bent head she unloosed a mental sigh. The logistics were as elemental as the points of a triangle. Point A: Their lifestyles—right down to his pen—were macrocosms apart. She observed the gold stylus flying across the page. Hardly a Bic special. Point B: Their natures didn’t concur. His reflected the Grinch while she, fool that she was, would give her right arm to safeguard and coddle the powerless, the tender-footed and the ugly. She shook her head.

Why couldn’t his grandmother be the one hiring?

Why couldn’t his face be broad and flat-boned?

His hair sparse and colorless?

He slapped shut the book, tossed it on the desk, and strode from the den. “That pickup down by the barn yours, Ms. McKay?”

She leapt after him. “Yes, I—”

A shrill bleep arrested his progress. She almost bumped into his back. He checked his pager. “I need to make a call. Wait here.” Back in the study, he closed the door with a quiet snick.

In the silence, the room lay at her feet: the tall windows, the tea set, the portrait of the woman.

What had she been thinking, Shanna wondered, envisioning herself in this house? It wasn’t her. Houses like this…

A glance at the closed study. Men like that…

Like Wade. Charming in face, honed in body. Women drooling with one look of his sinful eyes and one flash of his sexy smile.

Still, standing where she was, a sense of homecoming seeped into her blood, warm and favorable. She thought of Caleb and Estelle’s farmhouse where she’d spent most of her adolescence. Where she’d come to realize Brent—her father—would forever be a rodeo hound. Loving her and Jase, in his own skewed way, from miles down the road.

What she felt here couldn’t compare to those days.

Why this strange house?

She saw herself curled on one of the two love seats bracketing the octagon coffee table. Browsing one of the magazines scattered there. Dreamily admiring the big African violet. Touching the child’s tea set…

Her heart sank into its battered furrows. Had fate been kinder, had life taken a different route, toy trucks and trains might have covered her coffee table….

Oh, Timmy, my sweet little baby.

Fool. You’ve got to stop dreaming.

Ah, but she’d always been a dreamer. Marriage, kids, a house with a garden… But not in this house. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling of rightness.

An illusion, that’s all. A lovely, horrible illusion.

She had to get away before the fantasies overwhelmed her. She could not work here. Not for Michael Rowan, who muddled her common sense. And not in a place that had home written everywhere she looked. No matter how, she’d find an office job—or wash dishes, scrub floors, flip burgers—anything but milk cows for a man who had the capability of holding her elusive hopes in the palm of his hand.

Shouldering regret, she walked into the kitchen and set the check on the corner of the oak table. Seconds later she stood outside, shoving her feet into her wearied sandals. Already, she could feel the jerk of the old Chevy’s tires rumbling off Rowan land.

She jogged down the stoop.

His leather loafers waited in the grass.

She walked past them.

Halfway down the flagstone walk, she stopped, looked back, sighed.

Ah, shoot.

She’d always been a mark for brooding men.

Michael dialed Cliff Barnette’s number. Prayed his Realtor had what he wanted. He wasn’t crazy about Cliff handling the sale of the estate, but the man was Blue Springs’ best.

Barnette picked up on the first ring.

“It’s Michael Rowan.”

“Hey there, Doctor Michael,” the Realtor crooned—as if he and Michael were beer-chugging buddies. “We got some bad news. That fellow who was ready to sign the deal this morning backed out a half hour ago. Couldn’t get the loan, apparently. Sorry, guy, but it looks like we’re back to the drawing board. Don’t be disgruntled, though, it’s only been a few months. Big place like yours takes a little doing.”

“Yeah.” Michael rested an elbow on the desk and massaged his forehead. Just what he needed. Another dose of the long haul. He was so tired of this selling business.

Oh, Leigh. Why’d you have to go and die?

He jerked upright. It wasn’t his sister’s fault that rig had lost its brakes on a corner and catapulted into her husband’s rattletrap pickup. It had been Michael’s inadequacy that didn’t save her.

And the limitations of a small-town hospital.

“You there, pal?” the voice in his ear boomed.

“Yeah.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Do what you can, Cliff. Maybe something will come up in the next week or so.”

“I plan on zipping a couple ads into the southern regions. Los Angeles and the like.” He chuckled. “See if we can draw some interest from those rich gentlemen around Tinseltown who think farming is a hobby or a lark.”

“Fine. Let me know if anything looks favorable.”

“Will do.”

Michael set the receiver back in its cradle. What if it took years to sell the place? He wasn’t cut out to milk cows, plow fields, or ride fence lines. That had been his twin’s niche, her dream. Like a point of proof, she’d chosen to live on the land where they’d been raised by their grandparents. When their grandmother retired, Leigh had gone after her second goal and married Bob, a local man. She’d settled in this very house and had attained a stalwart status in the dairy industry.

They had been a threesome of heirs to the land, with Michael as the silent partner.

He wanted to laugh at the appalling irony. Now, Leigh and Bob were the silent ones. Eternally.

And Jenni. God, what to do about their six-year-old daughter? How to resume his career, run this place, and raise her? He knew nothing of kids. Hell, he could barely face the tyke most days. When her whimpers came in the night…

He set a thumb and forefinger against his tired eyes. He had to get rid of Rowan Dairy. Get rid of the memories. Take Jen away—away from the only home she knew.

Forget about easing her into her loss. He wanted to simply move them both back to his town house in Blue Springs—like he’d done right after Leigh’s death.

“Why can’t we live at the farm, Uncle M.? Why do we have to stay in your town house?”

Okay, so he’d keep them here. But, dammit, the longer they stayed in this house, the harder it would be to leave later.

Still, Jenni required adjustment time. Before he removed her from the community—a hundred miles south—to Seattle. Where he had a chance as partner in a flourishing clinic, and where, God help him, first-class E.R.s could handle the worst possible cases. Like Leigh’s.

He would not chance Jenni’s future to the strictures of Blue Springs General.

He kneaded the kink at his nape.

He owed the tyke a few more weeks.

Here.

Until he found the courage to explain his plans.

If the farm fell into a non-productive state in the meantime, so be it. Jen needed this place. And someone holding her in the night when the scary dreams invaded. She needed coddling.

Mothering.

Michael opened the door and looked through the archway. The house was empty. She was gone, the woman. Wearily, he stood. Could he blame her if she ran off with his money, never to return? He’d been rude, blunt and downright miserable.

Walking through the house, he snorted softly. He could well imagine her manipulating those “cud-chewers,” and her about as big around as his thumb. A little scrawny, but…pretty, in an artsy, folksy sort of style. Pretty legs, pretty lips.

On the kitchen table he found his check. Damn. She had run out, but not with his money. Sighing, he tucked the paper in a pocket. In the mudroom, he pulled on a pair of fatigued Apaches. Might as well check the barnyard before he headed back into town.

The screen door squawked when he pushed it open. He stepped onto the stoop and stared straight down at her squatted form a few feet away—cleaning his loafers with a tissue. Near her elbow, the garden hose leaked into the grass.

“Don’t get used to this, Doc,” she said without looking up. “I had nothing to do at the moment.”

Michael came down the steps. Her ridiculously long earrings swayed with each stroke of her fine-fingered hands.

“Great footwear,” she said, checking out his boots. “Next time you’re down around the barns I’d suggest you wear them instead. They’re more suited to what’s left behind.”

He combated a grin. He had to admit she was a delightful little thing. “Behind what?”

“Cows. Horses. Any critter on four legs.”

This time he gruffed a chuckle.

“Oops, that’s not a sense of humor I hear, is it?” She gave him a scamplike look, reached for the hose, and washed her hands. Done, she climbed to her feet.

“Now,” she said, shaking wet hands like a cat with dripping paws. “You asked me to wait. Why?”

Her eyes were blue. A remarkable blue. “I wanted to let you know the employee quarters will be vacant after tomorrow.”

“Where are they?”

He inclined his head toward a tiny whitewashed cabin—once the old homestead place—huddled among the trees.

She examined the dwelling. Something akin to guilt moved through him. The place was cramped, run-down. He hadn’t been inside it since college. Who knew what lurked within its walls?

“Well,” she said after what felt like a full minute. “My moving should make my little brother happy.”

“Oh?” Michael couldn’t hide his interest.

She eyed the cabin with a mixture of sadness and longing. “He’s dying to live on his own. This’ll put him in his glory.”

Her lashes were as long as pine needles. And black…like her eyebrows.

He couldn’t describe the color of her cropped hair; it oscillated between brown and blond. At times, the pale gold streaks in it seemed absurd. He wondered if she was a regular at some beauty salon. Unlikely, considering her surprise at his pay.

“What’s your brother do?” he asked, just to keep her within arm’s reach. That shook him. Women were usually a gamble he avoided.

“He works at Video Stop in town, but he’s attending the University of Washington in the fall.” Proud grin. Eyes lighting. Face like a candle in the dark. “He won’t like having to do his own cooking and cleaning, if you know what I mean.”

He knew exactly what she meant. She might have summed up his own solitary existence. It set his stomach on a low-tide roll. Eating another meal alone tonight, he would remember days he might have sat with Leigh and Bob and Jenni, laughing, joking, sharing conversation—sharing family…God, would the guilt for the should haves never stop?

She regarded him for a moment. “You okay, Doctor?”

“I’m fine.” He dug the check from his shirt pocket. “I think you forgot this.”

“Guess I did.” She smiled sheepishly and looked at the cabin. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll move in on Sunday.”

“I’ll make sure it’s ready.” He’d hire a cleaning woman tomorrow. “Well, then.” He shifted his feet, unwilling to let her go. Unsure why he couldn’t. “That’s it.”

“Great.” She smoothed the check. “I’ll see you in a couple days.”

“It’s secluded out here,” he blurted. “You’ll be alone most of the time. Will that be a problem?”

“My brother is—”

“Yes, I know, but what of others in your family?”

She stiffened. “There’s only my brother.”

“No children? Husband?” None of your concern, Rowan. He saw it in her expression, her posture. She stood as rigid as the trees behind them.

“No.” Her tone cooled. “Does that pose a problem?”

“None. I thought maybe…” Your husband got fired and you were forced to take the first thing that came along.

“I got laid off, Doctor. I didn’t quit or get fired, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Not at all,” he said, unnerved she’d nailed his suspicions. “I’m surprised this is the only job available.” Terrific. Not just nosy, but a pompous jerk to boot. A genuine winner, Rowan.

“Good jobs are at an all-time low around town,” she replied. The tautness in her words warned him to back off.

He didn’t. “But this—”

“It pays.” She fluttered the check. “That’s what counts.”

He let it go. Here he was, offering a woman of her apparent intelligence and, okay, looks, the tugboat instead of the cruise ship. Yes, he knew three thousand inhabitants populated Blue Springs—with dairies, fruit growers, farms and a couple of small ranches shaping the community at large. He simply didn’t like the way the odds fell out of her favor.

“Sorry,” he said, uneasy because she made him feel…something when he’d rather keep his heart walled up.

Her Pacific-colored eyes staked him. “I can do the job.”

“I’ve no doubt whatsoever that you can.” He estimated that the top of her head barely skimmed his Adam’s apple. A little dip and his chin could rest on her hair. “I simply want to know,” he said, irked by the sudden heated pool in his nether quarters, “who I’ve got wandering around this establishment. It’s an expensive operation and I wouldn’t want anything adverse happening because of incompetence.”

She snatched up her knapsack. “I’m not a liar.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You were implying it.”

The fire deserted him. “Ms. McKay—”

“Shanna.”

“Shanna, then. Please, understand. I’m a surgeon. My hours are bizarre most days. That’s why who I hire for this job must be someone I can trust. Implicitly.”

Her expression gentled. Sunshine silvered the danglers in her ears. “Well, Doctor,” she said softly. “You can trust me. Implicitly.”

She turned and walked to her truck, leaving him to vie with his memories—and worries about his future—once more.

Chapter Two

“Dangit,” she muttered, clunking her head a second time under the kitchen sink. She’d tried to tighten the drainpipe for a good half hour and still it leaked like a sieve.

At least the cabin was spotless. The kitchen appliances gleamed, and the bathroom fixtures smelled of Lysol. Even the aged planked floor had a coat of wax. And the mattress in the main bedroom was new—a crucial detail when her mornings began at four.

All she required was for him to buy an elbow seal.

Clambering to her feet, she stretched a twinge from the small of her back. Ten-fifteen. The day nearly half gone and the boxes she’d piled into the Chevy’s bed some seven hours ago with a grousing Jason at her heels remained unpacked.

She swiped her stinging eyes. Her baby bro. Nineteen years they had shared. She’d changed his diapers, sent him to first grade, watched him walk across the stage at his high-school graduation. Ah, Jase. You’ll go places, dear heart.

Through a grove of fir, she caught sight of the sorrel stallion. Soldat D’Anton—Soldier of Old—according to Oliver, the barn cleaner, whom she’d met this morning. The name suited the animal.

For a moment, he stood still, chin held high, pin ears erect, tail winging the breeze. Then he pawed the earth and shook his big head.

“Me-o mi-o, but you are some piece of work, buddy.”

Like his owner. Arrogant, strong-headed and extravagantly stunning.

Movement on the cabin’s path caught her eye. A calico cat, its tail flagpole-straight, strutted in front of a little girl. Five or six, the child clutched her yellow daisy-dotted skirt, swishing it side to side as she walked. Dark curls framed rosy cheeks and bounced on tanned shoulders. Shanna smiled. Lost to her own will-o’-the-wisps, this little one.

Shanna’s smile faded. Where was the girl’s mother?

The doctor’s Cherokee sat parked in the driveway next to the farmhouse. Had he brought the child with him?

She was outside in seconds, walking down the path toward the pair. “Hey, kitty.” Shanna hunkered down, offering a hand to the feline. The animal sniffed her fingertips daintily.

Dropping her skirt, the girl pressed her knuckles together and approached Shanna one cautious step at a time. Through the evergreen boughs above, sunlight sifted gold sugar onto the girl’s curls.

The cat butted its sleek mottled head against Shanna’s knee and purred.

“Her name is Silly.”

As if surprised to see someone else, Shanna looked up. “Silly, hm?”

“Uh-huh.” A small giggle escaped. “It was s’pposed to be Sally. But when I was little I couldn’t say Sally. Isn’t that silly?” More giggles escaped. “Ooh.” She clamped a hand over her mouth.

Shanna’s throat pinched. Her arms ached for the snuggle of a small cuddly body.

“Oh, stop it,” she muttered.

“Are you talking to yourself?” The child edged closer. Her fingers worried her skirt. Silly, purring like a tiny fine-tuned motor, plopped to the grass.

“Actually, I was telling Silly to stop being so noisy because she’ll scare the chickadees off.”

“Chick-a…?”

“Chickadees.” Shanna pointed up to the trees. “See those little birds with black caps on their heads?”

“Nooo…uh-hm.”

“They fly real fast. See, there goes one.”

A breathless little gasp. “Oh!” Round hazel eyes centered on Shanna, then back up to the trees. “Oh…oh, lookit! There’s another!”

“Cute, aren’t they?” Shanna watched the child. An adorable half-toothed grin plumped her freckled cheeks.

“Mmm-hmm.” Curls swung as she nodded and sidled closer. Their knees bumped. Elfin face serious, the child looked at the cat, which stared upward with its tail twitching. “Will Silly catch one?”

“I don’t think so. They’re too quick and smart. They know she’s here.”

Relief swept into the girl’s eyes. “Good. I don’t want the little birdies to die. My mommy and daddy died an’ it wasn’t nice.”

Shanna’s heart stumbled.

Of course. The accident. She’d read about it killing the doctor’s sister and her husband. When had it happened? April? No, March. Mid-March. Over three months ago. A freak accident that had left a child the lone survivor. This child.

The girl’s eyes filled.

“Aw, sweetie.” Shanna tucked the child to her side. Her cheek found soft warm curls smelling of sunshine and lemon shampoo. “Hey,” she said, swallowing back the lump behind her tongue. “I bet your name is Sally. That’s why you got Silly’s name mixed up.”

Another round of giggles. “Nuh-uh. My name’s Jenni.”

Shanna offered a palm. “Well, hello, Jenni. I’m Shanna.”

Little fingers skimmed bigger ones. “You’re pretty.” The half-toothed grin. “Know what?”

“Nope.”

“I’m six.”

Shanna whistled mock surprise. “Whoa, that’s getting old.” Had the birthday been with her parents? Shanna prayed it had.

“Nuh-uh, it’s not.” Jenni hunched a shoulder to her ear, smiling shyly. “Grammy is old. She’s got white hair an’ lots and lots of wrinkles…right here.” Two fingers bracketed her eyes.

Shanna laughed. It felt good. “Is she here with you?”

“No, just Uncle M. He looks after me most. Grammy looks after me when he has to work at the clinic.”

Shanna envisioned Estelle. Kind heart. Soft, plump arms. A nurturer, the way Meredith, Shanna’s mother, had never been.

“Sometimes,” the child went on, “like when Grammy’s in California, I go to the day care.”

“Where’s Uncle M. now?”

Jenni pointed to the house. “Home. It’s Sunday. Sometimes he doesn’t work Sunday. Right now he’s doing ’portant stuff upstairs.”

What stuff kept the doctor too busy to keep an eye on his niece? Shanna looked to where the stallion grazed in the paddock.

He bites.

A shudder chased up her spine. Had the cat headed toward the barnyard, where would that have left Jenni? Crawling through the fence? Walking up to a twelve-hundred-pound beast who gouged out a strip of earth with one slash of his hoof?

Shanna pushed to her feet. “Let’s see if your uncle needs any help.” Or a wake-up call.

“C’mon, Silly,” Jenni sang to the calico. “I’m going back to the house now.”

Curling her little palm around two of Shanna’s fingers, she walked up the path, cat in tow.

“Uncle Michael doesn’t like me bothering him,” Jenni volunteered.

“Did he say so?”

“No.” She took a little skip. “But I know.”

“How?”

“He looks at me a lot.”

“Maybe he thinks you’re cute.”

Jenni shook her head, jiggling her sun-dappled curls. “Uh-uh. He never smiles. And sometimes—” she touched the bridge of her button-nose “—he gets two splits here.”

Shanna understood. Grief accounted for the pain in those gray eyes and that unsmiling mouth. But it didn’t explain Michael Rowan’s apparent disregard for his niece. Not for a second would she have left Jason unattended at this age. Or her darling Timmy, had he lived. Jenni ran ahead and squatted in front of a confusion of marigolds growing along the stone walkway. Someone obviously loved the sunny-faced plants. “This one’s the prettiest,” she said, plucking a fat bloom. “Do you like it?”

“Very much. Want to put it in some water?”

The child shook her head shyly. “In your hair.”

“My hair?” With a self-conscious hand, Shanna pushed a thick chin-length clump behind her ear. “Why?”

“’Cause Octavia wears flowers in her hair. They make her happy.” Jenni tugged Shanna’s hand. “Bend down.” Little fingers whispered like leaves in a breeze at her temple. “Mommy told me Octavia means eight.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Octavia’s my dolly. Her hair’s the same as yours…kinda messy and all over the place. Tavia—that’s what I call her when she’s good—has a bad time combing it. Do you?”

Shanna kept a sober expression. “Sometimes. Especially in the morning after I wake up.”

The little girl stepped back to survey her handiwork. “Tavia doesn’t like getting up.”

Tavia or Jenni? Reverse role playing was common among children experiencing severe trauma. After her mother left, Shanna had done it herself—heaping daily problems on a fictional friend. Hers had been Anne Frank. At school, she’d read the girl’s diary and followed Anne’s resigned, courageous year concealed in a narrow back annex of the now famous house on Amsterdam’s Prinsengracht. Shanna had been Anne’s age when Meredith left.

Anne, Shanna’s partner in austerity in a small notebook.

The calico purred around their ankles. “See, even Silly thinks it’s nice.”

There on the stone walkway, with the smell of a sun-warmed child saturating her senses, Shanna leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Jenni’s brow. “You’re nice.”

The child stiffened.

“What is it, sweetie?”

Jenni’s button lip quivered. “I want to go in now.” Whirling, she scrambled up the steps and fled into the house.

Shanna stared at the door. She should have kept her heart wrapped completely in its cool detached cocoon—the one self-preservation had driven her to create nine years ago. The one she never allowed to chip or splinter for fear of what could happen.

Like now.

Ten minutes and she’d formed a sweet covenant with a sad little girl. One kiss and she’d ruined it. The child hadn’t been ready—and Shanna too anxious. “It’ll serve you right if she never comes near you again,” she muttered.

Heart heavy, she rose. She had to set things right.

But how did one go about trying to explain to a six-year-old that a peck on the head meant nothing more than thank you? That it didn’t mean a stranger wanted to replace her mother?

Michael flung a second stack of Leigh’s jeans into a large cardboard box sitting outside the door of the walk-in closet. A month after the accident, he had removed his brother-in-law’s wardrobe from this same closet, heaped the clothes into his truck and driven to the Lady of Lourdes church.

Easy street compared to this.

This was ugly.

A sacrilege.

And the reason nearly three months had elapsed before he’d dared enter the bedroom a second time.

He hadn’t been able to touch her things. Hadn’t been able to look at them without the ache in his gut doubling him over.

She wasn’t supposed to be dead, his only sibling, his twin. Here is where she belonged. Laughing, her rich voice invading the rooms. Giving Bob those foxy looks—

“But why, Uncle Michael?”

And answering her daughter’s questions about this horrible after-death ritual.

“Uncle Michael?” His niece’s tiny voice quivered.

“I’ve already told you, Jen. She won’t need them any more.”

“Mommy’s never coming back, is she?”

“No. She’s not.”

He glanced out of the walk-in closet. Leigh’s daughter stood near the packing box, clutching her shabby doll to her chest. The large L-shaped bedroom with its pine furniture and its queen bed spanned out behind her. In the toe of the L was a vanity and chair. Soon, he’d eradicate all of it. Brushes, makeup—

“Ever?”

One word, filled with confusion, trepidation and disbelief. In his twelve years at the hospital he’d heard those emotions often, but he recalled the first time best. When he was ten and they’d brought his parents home from Canada, broken and burned and no longer alive. Leigh had asked the same question of their grandmother, in this very room. He’d stood next to his sister, their hands clasped tight, and Katherine had shaken her head and walked out. Leigh had started crying. In his brain, the sound shattered him once more. And once more he felt the cool welcome of loathing what he could not change.

Jenni stared at the box. Leigh’s silver, pearl-buttoned shirt draped over a flap, in a beam of sunlight.

“No,” he said brutally, grief molding his anger into an invisible defensive sword.

The child sniffed and buried her face in the doll’s drab hair. He wanted to go to her, apologize for his tone, try and—

“Jenni?” A woman’s voice. Her voice.

In the dim closet interior, Michael’s hands froze on a cluster of hangers. What was she doing here? He watched his niece pivot, eyes swimming with hurt and fear.

“Uncle Michael’s taking away Mommy’s clothes, Shanna. He says she’s never, ever, ever coming home.”

“Aw, peachkins…”

Jenni’s mouth trembled. She darted a look his way, then dropped her doll and ran from his line of view. An instant later he heard her muffled whimper: “I hate him.”

“Jenni—”

“Please, make him stop. Please, Shanna. Please.”

Michael closed his eyes and released a sigh. When would life be normal again? Never, he thought and stepped out of the closet.

His lanky-limbed employee stood five feet inside the doorway with Jenni wrapped around her thighs like a tiny tenacious wood nymph. Tears crept down the little girl’s uplifted face and rolled into the curls smoothed by mothering hands.

Shanna raised her eyes. He hadn’t anticipated the fury in them. Or the pain.

“So,” he said, ignoring a snip of guilt—and jealousy. “Three days ago you introduce yourself to my horse. Today, my niece.”

“She was wandering around outside. By herself.” The last two words hung like stone pendulums.

He stepped around the box and picked up the doll. “Jen, take…” What did she call it? “Take your doll downstairs and feed her some of your favorite tea.”

The child gave him a teary, pouty look. “Don’t want to.”

“Jenni.” Ms. McKay pushed Leigh’s daughter away gently. She knelt and cupped Jenni’s small shoulders. “It’s okay. Do what Uncle Michael asks. He’s…” She threw him a quick, cool look. “He’s worried Tavia might be hungry. It’s nearly lunchtime, you know.”

Rubbing a palm up the side of her nose, the child shot him another look. “’Kay.”

“That’s a sweetie.” Without so much as a glimpse his way, Shanna McKay reached for the doll. When he laid it in her hand, she straightened its frilly dress and delivered it to Jen. “I’ll be down soon,” she whispered.

She watched the girl head out of the room. Annoyed that he studied his employee with her sun-gilded thighs and patched denim shorts, rather than his niece, Michael said, “What’s with the aloha look?”

Her head slowly turned. The wistfulness he’d seen in her face evaporated. Coldness settled in. Ah, but her wide, feminine mouth stayed soft as a ripe peach. He drew closer.

She pushed to her feet. Her eyes were severe. He fancied his battered boots, tired Wranglers and wrinkled T-shirt scored a thumbs down. Her chin elevated. “Are you talking about this?” She pointed to the flower.

He nodded, unable to look away. The foolish thing reminded him of a sultry night dancer. Sultry and night was a combination he wanted—no, needed—to avoid, especially around her. Purposely, to regain his balance, he glanced at the box draped in Leigh’s clothes, and was jolted back to reality. “Looks all wrong,” he muttered, mind back on his task.

Her laugh was soft and husky. “Well, Doc, your opinion isn’t worth a hoot. But your niece is another story. She’s smart, sensitive and has this charming idea that flowers make people happy. I happen to agree with her.”

Michael turned again to the woman standing pole-straight in front of him. Her lean, tanned arms were folded under small, round breasts. Below his navel he felt a rush of blood.

He took in the blossom above her ear and the jumble of her hair. Silky, he thought, and itched to take up a fistful.

His eyes found hers. Wide, wary.

Boldly, he stepped into her space. “Happy, huh?” He watched air affect her nostrils as he touched her cheek. “Are you happy, Ms. McKay?”

“Doesn’t matter if I am or not.” She caught his wrist and plucked the marigold from her hair. “Question is,” she said softly, placing the flower in his palm, “Are you?”

His skin throbbed where their fingers curled together and the knot of petals pressed. “Happiness isn’t the issue here.”

“Wrong. It’s the only issue when it concerns your niece.” Her eyes gentled. “Don’t trash her mother’s clothes.”

He backed away. “I’m not trashing them. I’m taking them to the Lady of Lourdes church.” Defeat enveloped him. He pushed out a long breath. “I didn’t expect Jenni to come up here, okay? She was to stay downstairs.”

“Well, she didn’t. She went outside. Luckily, she wandered toward the cabin instead of the barns. Do you have any idea what she might have run into down there?”

Guilt gnashed his gut. “Look, Ms. McKay—”

“No, you look. Your niece needs you. At the moment, she’s got one person to fill those vacant spots her parents left. You. Give her some attention. Show a little concern. Heck, a pat on the head would do the trick fine.”

“Playing shrink now?”

She ignored the insult. “Jenni told me you don’t like being bothered. In my books that means she’s in your way. No child should ever be in the way.”

Michael stared at her. Bothering him? Was that how Jenni saw herself? Why not? You barely see her.

The woman before him scraped back her uneven bangs. “Fire me for pointing it out. I don’t care. The well-being of a child is more important than a job.”

He could see she didn’t give one spit if he did fire her. To her, Jenni was at risk in his custody. He didn’t know whether to feel humbled, guilty, angry or all three.

Bending to her level, he said softly, “Who do you think you are, Ms. McKay? Mother Theresa? You don’t know flip from flap about raising kids, or how it feels to live without parents. But you’re right about one thing. If you want to retain this job, keep your opinions to yourself.”

Her pupils dilated. She clamped her lower lip. Retreated a step. “I think…” Another step. “I think it’s…best I go.”

Regret spiked his belly. “Ms. McKay—”

“Shanna,” she corrected, shaking her head. “My name is Shanna,” she whispered. “Just like yours is…is Mike.”

“Mike? No one calls me Mike.” But he liked it. Across her lips it was an intimate, seductive little breath. Yeah, he liked Mike—a lot.

A quavery laugh escaped her lips. “I’ll try and remember that next time we meet.”

She left the room, and he stood alone with silence and a delayed whiff of her scent closing in on him.

Jenni sat on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. She wished Shanna would come downstairs. She knew Uncle Michael and her new friend were talking about what happened.

The tears she had wiped away started plopping on Tavia’s jumper again. It was getting really spotty. Octavia was so upset, and Jenni didn’t know how to calm her.

“It’s okay, Tavia,” she whispered against the doll’s hair. “I’ll look after you. I won’t let Uncle M. yell at you no more.”

But Tavia just kept crying, wishing for Mommy and Daddy to come down from heaven instead of staying up there and helping God all the time.

She didn’t like them being angels. She wanted them to be people like Shanna and Grammy. Even like Uncle M.

Jenni wouldn’t let Tavia tell her to say mean things to Uncle Michael, either. That wasn’t nice. She really didn’t hate him. She just didn’t want him to throw Mommy’s things away.

“’Cause,” Jenni whispered. “If he throws Mommy’s clothes away, he might throw mine away. Maybe he’ll even throw me away.”

She bit her lower lip and palmed her nose. If Uncle M. threw her away, then she and Tavia would just go and live with Shanna or Grammy. Sniffing, she swiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Yeah, that’s what they’d do. They’d live with Shanna. Shanna was fun and showed her things like the chick’bees.

Stroking Tavia’s hair, Jenni rocked back and forth, singing softly. She and Tavia felt better.

He’d been a jackass.

Again.

If she called him worse names when she opened her door, he’d bow his head and take them in stride.

All day he’d kept watch on the white log house through the trees. The battered two-toned pickup, parked in the narrow driveway, meant she hadn’t left as he’d feared during the hour he’d been to Blue Springs. Shortly after lunch his grandmother had called to announce her return from her six-week visit to her brother in Anaheim, and she’d demanded to see her great-granddaughter. Grateful for an excuse to get out of the house, he took the tyke into town. After this morning, he had no delusions about Jenni’s eagerness to leave him for a few hours.

Damn. They should be drawing closer. Bonding, not pulling apart. They shared a loss. As the adult, and a doctor, he knew how to lessen the trauma for Jen and for himself.

Except, he couldn’t.

Shanna’s right, he thought, walking the pathway toward the employee quarters. As a stand-in parent he was a bozo.

Shanna. The name hummed through his blood. He didn’t understand the attraction. She wasn’t his type. Tall, slim to the point of being gangly. He preferred women with hourglass figures. Soft. Yet, a glimpse of her had his jeans in an uncomfortable fit.

He regarded the cabin, then the ridiculous marigold in his hand, and scowled. Seven months without so much as a dinner date was more than any normal red-blooded American man should endure. The last, with a divorced radiologist, had evolved into a date of ear tonguing and crotch palming—from her—that he would rather forget.

Not Shanna. He’d be the one tonguing and palming. Lean limbs, that skin slick and damp…

Booting a pinecone off her stoop, he raised a hand to knock. No use denying it. The sight of her spun something between them.

The door flung open.

Her sapphire eyes were cool. Cool as the jewel they emulated. “Hey, Doc. Come to see if I’ve cut and run?”

Michael shoved off a flicker of displeasure. So she held grudges. He understood. Grudges held off pain. Thumbs catching his jeans pockets, he asked, “May I come in?”

“Why? As you see, I’m not going anywhere. I realized I do need this job.”

“I’d like to talk.”

“About what?” Her tone dipped below ice-blue, like the blouse she wore. “We said it all this morning. I stay out of your hair, you stay out of mine. When it’s over we’ll say adios and that’ll be that.”

“Dammit, Miss—”

“Drop the formalities, Michael. I’m just the hired help not one of your associates at the clinic, not a patient.”

He’d have preferred Mike—and the way it seared the air from her lips. Shifting, he stared down the hill at the barns. “I shouldn’t be taking my problems out on you.”

“Better me than your niece.”

He looked at her. She had such pretty eyes. “You don’t mince words, do you?”

“Seldom.”

Again he observed the barns and fields. “I never used to be like this.”

“Tragedy changes us in ways we don’t expect.”

And the tragedy I’ve seen in your eyes? “You’re different.”

“From who?”

“Most people.”

“Is that good or bad?” Her tone gentled.

He studied her soft mouth. “Good. Very good.”

“Well, that’s a first. Come in. I’ll put on a pot of tea.” She gestured to his hand. “That poor marigold needs water.”

She headed for the kitchen, leaving him to close the door—and to watch her backside in cropped denim pants. Baked chicken and a medley of spices hailed him. She could cook.

“Supper at three in the afternoon?”

“I skip lunch.” She pulled down the oven door and checked the meal. “So I try to eat early.”

He wandered around the tiny living room. “Next to breakfast, lunch is the most important meal of the day. There’s a saying that goes: king, prince, pauper. It’s how you should treat daily meals.”

This time her laughter was rich and a little smoky and floated into his belly. “I hate to put a crimp in your diet plans, Doc, but I eat when the growlies arrive. For me that happens twice a day.”

“You’re too thin.”

“Well,” she huffed. “Sorry if that offends you.”

“It doesn’t.” He liked her frame just fine. In fact, inordinately so. But he couldn’t snub his observations—from a medical viewpoint.

He looked around. It was the first time he’d been in the cabin since long before Leigh died. What he saw shamed him. The place was old. The walls needed painting.

“Would you like some chicken?” She tossed oven mitts on the Formica and readjusted one of the two barrettes holding back her hair. Her arms were graceful as a figure skater’s. He imagined them around his rib cage, his neck.

“You can’t live here.”

“Beg pardon?”

“The place is a dump. My sister—” How to tell her the cabin had been Leigh’s responsibility and that since her death he’d neglected it. Just as he neglected the animals, the books…Jenni.

“It’s not so bad.”

Not bad? One of the curtains hosted a foot-long tear. He hated to think of what lurked behind the doors of the bathroom and two bedrooms. Even after the maid’s cleaning.

Shanna took a brimming bucket from under the sink.

Striding into the narrow kitchen, he tossed the flower on the counter. “The sink’s leaking?”

“Good one, Doc. You get the prize.” She handed him the bucket. “Would you empty it in the toilet, please, while I put on the kettle?”

Just like her not to mention the condition of the house. He headed for the bathroom and dumped the water. About to leave, he stopped and looked. This was her space. Her secret space. Female essentials mussed the narrow, beige Formica around the antiquated sink and lined the chipped tub. Two blue-and-yellow combs, a big tube of hand lotion, glycerine soaps stuffed in a woven basket, a wooden tree strung with those ear danglers, Scooby-Doo lip balm— He did a double take. Scooby-Doo? Snorting softly, he shook his head. She was a rare something, this Shanna. And you’re in trouble, Rowan.

“Toilet working okay?”

He whipped around, the bucket clanging against a drawer. Arms crossed, she leaned in the doorway, one bare ankle slung over the other. Behind him the tiny round window let in the day’s light, tipping her cheekbones with rose.

“Yes,” he said, voice gruff. “It works.”

She smiled, glanced at the counter where he’d tarried. “Find anything interesting?”

He stepped toward the doorway. Her smile faded. A bouquet of meadows in summer caressed him. Oh, yeah. All woman. Easy angles, sweet-eyed. “Maybe I have.”

Her nostrils flared. “And it would be…?”

Today, three filigree chains swung like wind chimes from each of her tiny lobes. He tapped a trio. “Just…” You. “Little things.”

“Is there one in particular you favor?” Those blue eyes ringed in black swallowed him.

He perused the edge of her jaw, the line of her throat. “There is.”

A snippet of air against his knuckles. Hers.

Once, twice, his thumb grazed the satin of her neck. He tilted her chin. Her sweet mouth. Waiting for him. God, decades down the road he’d look at her features and be captivated. Still.

Paralyzed, he stared. Giving one woman, this woman the rest of his life? Out of the question. He wasn’t about to chance fate. Fate could involve kids. Fate had taken his parents’ plane into a mountainside. Left him and Leigh orphaned.

Like Jen.

Settling down was not in his Tarot cards. Neither was waking up beside the same woman until he was ninety-plus. Trouble was, within the space of two days his ethics had taken a lopsided turn out to left field. Because of her. Shanna.

Caught in her eyes, finger crooked under her chin, he wanted to wrap her up like a Valentine’s gift, kiss her till the cows came home, lead her through the open door of the bedroom five feet away, fly her to the stars.

But not forever.

“Mike?” she whispered.

He dropped his hand and stepped back.

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to go.” Two strides and he was down the hall. “I’ll find a guy in town to paint this joint.”

In a flash she was on his heels. “My brother can do it.”

He stopped. “Your brother.”

“Why not? He could use the money.”

“Fine.” She was close again. Too close.

The kettle whistled. He headed for the door, yanked it open.

“Where do I buy the supplies?” she called.

“Spot O’ Color. It’s on Riverside and—”

“I know where it is.”

“Great. Tell your brother to get on it ASAP. I want the dairy sold before fall.”

He slammed out of the cabin before she answered. Before he changed his mind, stormed back inside and kissed her like…hell, like a crazy man.

Chapter Three

She washed the bag of the last big-bellied black-and-white Holstein with Santex disinfectant. “Almost done, Rosebud.”

In the metal stanchion, the cow chewed her cud peaceably. Shanna hung the Westfalia Surge milking unit on a hook and affixed the suction cups to the animal’s sanitized teats. Hiss-click-hiss-click. The machine streamed milk to the sixteen-hundred-gallon stainless steel tank in the milk house.

Dressed in green overalls and rubber boots, Shanna knew a contentment she hadn’t felt since growing up on the Lassers’ farm. She liked the cows’ broad, docile faces, their big, dark eyes, their gentle natures. She fancied the classic bovine odor within the big flatbarn: a fusion of hay and manure and sweaty hide. And, physical as it was, she liked the work.

She’d like it more if she could stop thinking about the doctor and those moments in her washroom. When she thought—knew—he’d wanted to kiss her.

For the past two days, since striding from the cabin, he’d kept himself and Jenni hidden. Late at night the Jeep’s headlights would come down the lane and stop at the farmhouse. The next morning, after milking was finished, the car was gone again. She wondered if the child came and went with him.

Ah, why worry? she thought, releasing Rosebud from her milking apparatus. He made it clear you weren’t to interfere.

Prickles ran up her nape.

He stood five feet away, hands shoved deep into the pockets of black trousers. The sleeves of his gray dress shirt were flipped back on his forearms, the collar liberated of its tie.

Her breath quickened.

Ignoring the broody expression on her employer’s face, she pressed a wall button and, on a clang of metal, relinquished the last group of ten cows of their stalls.

“Checking to make sure I’m doing my job, Doctor?”

“Nope.”

“Good.”

Down at the far end of the parlor, old Oliver Lloyd, whistling to Tim McGraw’s “Where the Green Grass Grows,” hosed manure and urine from the step-dam gutter. On Tuesday, the slurry man would haul away the two-week store. The animals clopped down the alleyway toward the open double doors at the rear of the long barn. Shanna tagged behind them with Michael at her shoulder.

Approaching the paddock where the cows fed at extended troughs filled with a silage of corn and alfalfa, she scanned the doctor’s dress slacks—with creases down those long runner’s legs—and his black buckled shoes. “Fresh patties ahead. Sure you want to walk through here in those?”

His lips moved. “Where you going?”

Away. Far away. “To check the water system.”

He surveyed the galvanized vat near the opposite gate. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, but I check it regularly.”

He stared out over herd and land. A cluster of sparrows chirped in the eaves. From the western hills, the sun slanted long, spindly shadows beside the cattle as they found their places at the feed stanchions, tails lazily swishing flies.

“You’re an amazing woman, Shanna McKay.” He spoke without looking at her. “You come here out of the blue, answer my ad personally, befriend my niece who’s barely talked to a soul in three months, and milk ninety head of cows twice daily as if it’s the most natural thing for a woman to do.”

“It is,” she said and meant it.

He turned, his gray eyes searching hers. “No,” he replied. “It’s not. It’s damned hard work.”

In the natural light, he looked exhausted. Beneath the shirt, his big shoulders slumped a little. Shadows, like the prints of inked thumbs, lay under his eyes.

“And doctoring isn’t difficult?” she asked, beating back the urge to lay a cool hand to his cheek. She didn’t want to feel sorry for him.

A rueful smile. “At times.”

“There you go. All jobs have their rough moments.”

As if he hadn’t heard her, he said, “I don’t know how you do it. But then you’re unique.”

“That’s not what you said in the cabin.”

His eyes returned to hers. “What did I say in the cabin?”

“That I was different.”

He flicked one of the three-inch gold dream-catchers she’d slipped into her ears at dawn. “Unique,” he repeated softly. A corner of his lips curved. “And possibly a little atypical.”

She felt the look he gave the ball cap controlling her messy hair clean to her toes. She wished she wasn’t in hot, heavy barn gear, but in some light, airy thing. Ah, who was she kidding? She wasn’t the light, airy type.

He looked back at the land. He did that a lot, she noticed. Gazed off as if taking a detour from what was on his mind.

A slight bump rode high on his long, thin nose. An austere, masculine mold cast his lips. Was he a timid kisser? She doubted it; she’d bet he was an openmouthed, migrant sort of guy. A tongue dancer. How many of those cute nurses have you kissed?

More than I want to know.

She headed for the metal vat. Plunging her bare arm into the cold water, she felt along the bottom for the outflow. Good, free of blockage. Stepping back, she shook her arm and swiped at the water droplets.

“Here.” Michael rolled down a sleeve. For a dime’s value of seconds she stood beguiled as he dried her hand and forearm with a strip of gray that matched his eyes.

His hands were large, the knuckles heavy with a light dusting of hair. She envisioned those hands holding a scalpel. Or maybe pressing a tummy searching for abnormalities and ailments. She envisioned his hands on her tummy.

She looked up and found his eyes dark with wonder, his mouth tight, the tiny scar pale. He had thick, spiky lashes. Black as pitch. How would they feel tickling her lips, her fingers?

Get real, Shanna.

Her hands reeked of cows; his had been washed with Ivory. Her hair was jammed under a Seahawks cap. His lay in a short, crisp style.

No matter how she viewed it, he was the princely physician and she the mere milkmaid.

His thumbpad, gentle and strong, brushed the veins of her wrist and, for a heartbeat, rested in her palm. An unfamiliar touch. One, if she were honest, she’d never experienced. Certainly not with Wade. She shivered. This dreadful magnetism was wrong.

“You’re chilled.”

Mercy. That bass voice. She looked to where his fingers cupped her wrist, where her flesh goose-bumped. How discordant, the magnitude of his hand to her bones. Argh! Absurd, fantasizing about a man whose knuckles and flipped sleeves had her insides on a wave drill. In social circles they were as comparable as a Lamborghini and a farm pickup. She was tailored to guys like Wade with his Tony Lama boots, black Stetsons, pearl-buttoned shirts—and smelling of saddles and horse sweat. Michael was…a surgeon.

Carefully, she stepped back and folded her arms over her chest. Hiding. “Nothing wrong with the valve. Truth is, the entire dairy’s in great shape.”

“So’s your kitchen drainpipe.”

“It’s fixed?”

“Put in a new seal when I got home from work.”

“You?”

A pleased little-boy smile. “I wasn’t always a doctor, Shanna. I learned to use a wrench before a stethoscope.”

Heat moved up her neck. “Sorry, I wasn’t being sarcastic.”

“I know.” They looked at each other for a long moment. He said, “I also bought a couple tins of paint. They’re on the doormat. Oliver can help. I should have thought of it before.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m not used to this selling business.”

Her smile faded. She had no business telling him what to do. No business feeling the way she did. About him or the child. But telling and feeling were two traits she’d never governed with discretion.

“You know, Doc,” she said, heading for the barn doors. “You really should reconsider and keep this place for yourself and your niece. The second you sign on that dotted line, it’s over. And that,” she speared him with a glance, “will be a flipping shame.”

Together they entered the warm, musky interior of the milking parlor.

A flipping shame? Michael thought, striding beside her. Dammit, woman, where do you come off with your assessments?

She knew nothing about the pain and fear he endured living in this place, in this community. What did she know about medical facilities short of resources, funding and expertise? What did she know about a life cut off in its prime?

“It’s like that Amy Grant song,” she continued. “‘You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.’ This place has all the amenities you’d ever want for raising a child. Fresh air, peace, quiet. Once you sell, it’ll—”

He stopped. “Did you not understand what I said the other day? I don’t need your advice on what’s best for this place or—”

She swung around. “Or what, Doctor? You’ll fire me? We’ve been there, done it, framed the picture.” She lifted the Seahawks cap and raked back the jungle of her hair. “Look. All I’m suggesting is don’t rush into something you may regret a month from now.”

They were at the midpoint of the long corridor. Light filtered through the doors and caught in the hollows of her cheeks. If he closed his eyes, he’d recall each fine detail.

Five days ago the woman hadn’t existed. Now, she never left his mind. He didn’t want to feel anything for her. Starting with the first of those rudimentary aspects like…lust.

Not that he didn’t enjoy the body side of the lure. He did. He appreciated the sight of a pretty woman. Mostly, he praised his stoic heart, thumping behind his ribs, for its neutrality in spite of any attraction or spark.

Except, around this woman his heart did crazy, unorthodox things. He didn’t understand it. Barring her eyes, she was neither traditionally beautiful nor alluring. Her body was curveless, her short hair a persistent tangle. Never mind that she poked her slim, shapely nose in his business.

“What do you want from me?” he asked wearily.

A direct look. “Nothing. But Jenni does. Ask her.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, she’s six, not twenty-six.”

“She’s a person, Michael. She has feelings, which, at the moment, she doesn’t understand.”

Anger tight in his chest, he jammed his hands into his pockets. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then talk about her parents. She needs to know how you feel about their loss. Most of all, that you’re not angry with her.”

“I’m not angry with her!” Damn. She’d pinned him to the wall and pared off layers he’d stapled down. He wasn’t ready to talk about Leigh. Still, fresh, the wounds tore easily.

With a heavy sigh, he massaged his nape. “Look, she was in the wrong place at the wrong time the other day and for that I’m sorry, but I am selling this farm.”

Shanna hesitated, then shrugged. “Your decision.”

“Yes,” he said, dropping his hand. “It is.”

She turned to go then stopped. “Where is Jenni, by the way?”

He refused to feel guilty. “At my grandmother’s. I’m picking her up in a few minutes.” I wanted to come home first. See you.

“Does she know you’ll be moving her to a new home?”

“Jen’s been to my town house before.”

She nodded, acquiescing.

The gesture irked him. “What I do or don’t do in respect to my niece,” he said, pushing past her and striding down the aisle, “is not your concern. Do the job you were hired for, Ms. McKay, and we’ll get along fine.”

“As in stick to the barn and cows, Doc? Know my place?”

He stopped, parked his hands at his waist, and took a deep, pacifying breath. “If that’s what it takes. Just leave my niece alone.” Leave me alone. “I don’t want you pumping her head full of idiotic ideas that’ll only confuse her.” And me.

He recognized the damage instantly. The distress he saw in her eyes two days ago in Leigh’s bedroom was there once more. “I would never do that,” she whispered.

“Dammit. You know what I’m trying to say.”

She poked out her chin. “Message received.” The hurt vanished in a wake of quiet dignity. “Excuse me, but I have cows to see, barns to roam, manure to clear.” She walked away and disappeared into another section of the building.

Michael stood in the hushed milking parlor, in the musk of animal and hay, and thought, You expect more than I can give.

That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? He could not give Jenni what she needed any more than he could grant life to Leigh. Would he ever master this feeling of helplessness? This terror of knowing how inadequate he was?

Ah, Leigh. You knew, didn’t you?

Just as he’d known, the minute they’d unloaded her off the ambulance, that she was critical. He’d known with one glance she wouldn’t make it, known as he’d jogged beside the trauma bed speeding through the electronic doors of the limited twenty-bed hospital. Her raspy voice still tore at him….

“Michael…promise me.”

“Shh. Don’t talk, sis. I’m here.”

“Promise.” She touched weak fingers to his wrist. Internal damage, he knew, drained strength.

Tears stung his eyes. “Sis, you’re okay. Hear me?” Even to his own ears the statement rang false. Another night and he wouldn’t have been the doctor on call. Another night and it would have been his associate’s turn.

Rushing down the tiled corridor, the paramedic at the helm of the long board said, “She was a passenger in an MVA, Doc.”

“Air bag?”

“No. A ’91 pickup, horse trailer in tow.”

Michael knew the vehicle. Old and banged up from too many haulings. Why hadn’t they taken the Ford F350 to that auction?

“Get me two large bore IVs,” he barked as they spun into emergency and a nurse dashed off. “Vitals?”

“Pulse rate 140—”

“BP’s eighty over fifty—dropping!”

The IVs were suddenly in his hands. “Run warm ringer’s lactate wide open, both IVs!” The nurse on his left disappeared. “And get X ray and lab down here! I want a C.B.C., lytes, B.U.N., creatinine, glucose, type and cross-match six units—now!”

In the end none of it, not one thing he’d given her, had helped. He looked around the cement and tiled alleyway of the barn where he still stood. Turning, he strode out into the heavy evening air. Damn memories.

“So, you’re the one.” A scratchy female voice spoke through the open doorway.

Shanna looked up from the last of the canned goods she was storing in the pantry. After milking, she’d run into Blue Springs for groceries. Now, a tiny, white-haired woman in tan cowboy boots, jeans and a poet’s blouse stood leaning on a cane on the threshold of the door Shanna had propped wide for a breeze of cool evening air.

Michael Rowan’s grandmother.

Same high-boned cheeks, resolute jaw and hawk nose.

Beside her on the stoop, Jenni, dressed in a pink jumpsuit, clutched Octavia and a miniature red-and-blue knapsack.

The matriarch stepped inside. Behind brown-rimmed glasses, she judged the room from corner to ceiling to floor.

“Well,” the old lady said, her eyes as intense as her grandson’s. “You’ve certainly made a mark.”

You haven’t seen nothing yet. “Why don’t you come in, ma’am. Hey, Jenni. Want a cookie?”

The little girl nodded with a shy smile.

The old lady spied the coffeemaker. “That brew fresh?”

“As tomorrow’s dawn.” Shanna took out two mugs and filled them.

“You’re quick. Got a wit, too. Well-shaped legs. Good qualities. Skirt’s a mite short, but then this isn’t my era.”

Shanna choked back a laugh. Granny or not, she was like an auctioneer citing the record of an animal in the ring.

“I’m Katherine Rowan, by the way. Michael’s grandmother.” She didn’t offer a hand. “Friends call me Kate.”

“Shanna McKay. Cream, sugar?”

“Black.”

Kate settled at the kitchen table with her cane across her knees. Jenni sat on the couch with Octavia and began plucking the little tea set Shanna had seen in the main house from the knapsack.

Kate pursed her lips. Her gray eyes pinned Shanna. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

“Of what?”

“Me.”

Shanna set two mugs on the table and gave the child a large chocolate chip cookie and a glass of milk. She stroked Jenni’s hair, then slipped into a chair. “Should I be afraid of you?”

“I’ve put the run on a few hired hands in my day.”

“Maybe you had grounds to do so. But, if I leave it won’t be because I’ve sloughed up on the job.”

“I like you, Shanna McKay. I believe you and I will get along very well.”

“I agree.”

They grinned at each other.

“Grammy?” Jenni came to stand by the woman’s knee.

“What, child? Bored already?”

“No, but can I play on the step? I want to see the chick’bees again.”

“Chick-a-dees. All right. But don’t wander off.”

Several treks later, the child had transported doll, milk, tea set and cookie outside. Within moments, she was humming and explaining to Tavia about black-hatted birdies.

Shanna watched the child play in freckled sunshine. Nine years and still mending. I’ll never forget you, Timmy.

Kate said, “My great-granddaughter is very taken with you.”

“She’s a sweet child.”

The old woman sipped noisily at her coffee. “Her mother, my granddaughter—God rest her soul—didn’t know the first thing about raising kids. She wasn’t the maternal kind.” Another slurpy sip. “Bob did most of the mothering.”

“Mrs. Rowan—”

“But you know about mothering, don’t you?”

“I don’t think—”

“I can see it in your face when you look at that child.” The old lady sized up the open doorway where Jenni hummed tunelessly. “She’s told me a few things about your first meeting.”

“I hardly know the girl.”

“Yes, you do. You knew exactly what she needed from the minute you told her about those birds out there.”

Shanna looked down at her coffee. “Mrs. Rowan, I don’t think we should discuss Jenni or how her mother treated her. I’m…I’m only an employee and in a few weeks I’ll be gone.”

Kate shot her a look. “Did you know she’s barely spoken more than a handful of sentences since her parents died?”

“Michael—Doctor Rowan mentioned it the other day.” When he was giving me hot looks and touching my earrings.

“Did he also mention she has nightmares?”

“No.”

“She wakes up and thinks she sees Leigh in the doorway.”

Shanna’s eyes sought out the tiny form sitting twenty feet away, chatting to Octavia.

“He doesn’t know how to deal with it,” Kate went on. “He’s had a lot of…trouble getting over—” her lips tightened “—Leigh’s death. They were attached at the hip. Jen is the spitting image of Leigh as a child, you know. Though, God forgive me for saying it, she doesn’t have Leigh’s personality. My granddaughter was excessively driven and obsessed with the land. Anything else was a side note. Including her daughter. Shocked us all when she got pregnant. She wasn’t prone to wanting children. Bob was, though. So they had Jenni. To soften the marriage, I suspect.” She blew a gusty breath. “It worked.”

“Mrs. Rowan…”

“Kate.”

“Kate. Why are you telling me this? You don’t even know who I am.”

The elder woman harumphed. “For some reason unbeknownst to any of us, you’ve become the light at the end of a very dark tunnel for my great-granddaughter. Since she met you, your name comes into every second sentence she speaks.” Again, Kate looked toward Jenni. “She’s been a quiet child all her life. When her parents died…well.” She looked at Shanna. “Jen’s never taken to anyone so, not even me.”

“I—”

“Oh, don’t fuss. That wasn’t meant to be nasty. I’ve got more than enough of Leigh in me not to be jealous. Though, in my old age I’ve realized something she hadn’t yet learned.” She stirred a spoon in her unadorned coffee and gave Shanna a stern look. “Happiness counts above all else.”

Shanna remained silent. Jenni sang in the sunshine. How could you not have been happy with your baby, Leigh?

Kate lifted her mug to her lips and rested the rim there, her wintry eyes direct. “You’d be a fine match for my grandson. Oh, now, don’t worry,” she said when Shanna almost choked on her coffee. “It’s just an observation.”

Shanna dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Is this what you meant by putting the run on your employees?”

Kate threw back her head and laughed. “Honey, you are definitely a delight. No, all my other employees were men and as far as I know not one was prone to wearing a skirt.”

“Well, that’s a relief to hear.”

Kate sobered. “I never say anything I don’t mean. And, I’ve never told another soul what I’m about to tell you. The women my grandson dates are as deep as a bale of hay.”

I don’t want to know this. Really, I do not.

“All right,” Kate said, acknowledging Shanna’s discomfort. “Forget Michael. By the way, you make a decent cup of coffee.” She slanted a look over her shoulder. “And keep a clean house.”

“I’m having my brother paint the walls.”

The old woman examined the kitchen and muttered, “Leigh could’ve taken a lesson from you. If it wasn’t for Bob, they would’ve lived like pigs in mud.”

Pigs in mud? “Kate—”

But Michael’s grandmother went on, as if she sat in the room alone. “He was always finding dust bunnies under the furniture. It’s a wonder little Jenni made it through the crawling stage without gagging on one.”

Shanna’s jaw dropped. Michael’s sister had raised her baby in filth? “But the house is impeccable, the barn spotless.”

An impatient wave. “Michael. After Leigh died he spent every spare hour scrubbing, polishing, waxing. He couldn’t handle Jenni living in that kind of dirt any more. As for the barn—that was Leigh’s love. The outdoors, the animals, the farm. Down there everything was in its place.”

Had Leigh loved her daughter at all? Been concerned about whether or not the child felt safe, warm, cared for?

Kate said, “Don’t get me wrong. She loved Jenni. She just wasn’t domestically inclined or the mothering type. Bob did most of the parenting. He was crazy about the child.”

Shanna mulled over the information. When she met Jenni, the child had been…

Clean? Michael’s doing.

Afraid of affection? Shanna’s gratitude kiss proved that.

Bob had loved his daughter. Hugs and kisses came from the man in Jenni’s life. No wonder the poor elf was lost.

“You see where I’m coming from now?” the old lady asked.

Yes, she did. “It’s hard not to love her,” Shanna murmured.

Restless, she rose and refilled their mugs. Jenni, Jason and herself, a trio with mothers who would have benefitted from Love-Your-Children 101. And your childhood, Michael?

“Were they close, Doctor Rowan and his sister?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Kate grunted. “They were twins.” As if that explained it all. “For the most part they were inseparable, as twins are wont to be, but especially so when Davey, my son, and his wife went on their…adventures. The kids would sleep in the same room the nights their parents weren’t here. Leigh was scared of the dark.”

“Adventures?”

The old woman batted the air. “Another story.” She picked up her coffee, blew on it then drank.

Shanna’s turned cold.

The sweet sound of Jenni’s singing warmed the room.

Kate pushed her mug aside. “About a year after Davey and his wife died, the twins took to different interests. Leigh got caught up in the farm and the animals and Michael…” She patted the cane in her lap. “We really didn’t know what was on his mind. It wasn’t until he went to college that we found out he wanted to go into medicine. He…he was the first in our family to get a degree, you know.”

“Kate, I think—”

“Think I’m a gossip, don’t you, girl?” Behind lenses, her eyes—Michael’s eyes—were magnified.

“Not at all.” I think you’re lonely for your children.

Kate stared out the window at the serene pastures and the majesty of Mount Baker. “I’m telling you so you’ll understand him better. He’s a good man.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Just has trouble connecting with family folk. Leigh went off on a tangent with this place. I think it scared Michael, the way she loved it. Worsened when she got pregnant. Truth be known, he didn’t think much of her mothering skills. ’Course he’s not much better. He’s had a dickens of a time connecting with Jenni.” She brightened. “But he’s a wonderful doctor.”

Jenni’s voice tinkled from somewhere beyond the stoop, coaxing Silly to lie in Tavia’s lap.

Kate looked at Shanna. “I’m glad you’re the one who gave my great-grandchild back her smile. And,” she went on, “as ornery and irascible as he can be, I suspect you’ve sparked a smile from my grandson. Both have been a long time coming.”

Near the cool shadowed doorway, a bee droned before it decided to forego curiosity for the hive and flitted away. Losing herself in beauty and peace, Shanna murmured, “He doesn’t realize how much this place can heal him. Too bad it’s up for sale.”

For a long moment all was still. Kate set her palms flat on the table and rose. Avid eyes bore into Shanna. “What do you mean Rowan Dairy is up for sale?”

Shanna frowned. “You didn’t know?”

Chapter Four

Michael stood in the cabin doorway. His grandmother picked up her mug, then clunked it down. “If my grandson thinks he’s going to—”

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