Congratulations.

The gynecologist had confirmed what the little pink X’s had told Sarah so clearly that night. She was going to have a baby next summer.

But it still seemed unreal. Like a very, very long bad dream. As she entered her apartment, Sarah dropped her purse and her “So You’re Having a Baby” brochure on the coffee table. Then she dropped herself onto the sofa, like a puppet with cut strings.

Her half-focused gaze fell on the table where the mail still lay. She was unable to work up the energy to open it. A few bills, a dozen Christmas cards…

But now she saw that one of the cards was from Uncle Ward. The sight was strangely comforting. She reached for the card, wondering if her uncle had included one of his long letters chronicling the goings-on in his little mountain town. How lovely it would be to escape, even for a few minutes, into his world.

She sat up, wondering how much a flight to upstate New York cost. Uncle Ward and Firefly Glen had been a sanctuary once. Perhaps they could be the same now. She picked up the telephone. Surely somewhere in that gentle valley town, amid all that snowy silence, she could figure out what to do with her life.

Dear Reader,

Home. It’s a small word to mean so much. And yet that one syllable holds the power to inspire writers and poets, philosophers and painters.

But what is it, really? A hundred people will give you a hundred different answers. It’s a house, a city, a parent, a husband, a friend. It’s where you retreat, sick and frightened, and come out brave and well. It’s where you can finally take off your armor, lay down your sword and rest.

Sometimes the treasure of home is handed to you at birth, gift-wrapped with love and laid at the foot of your cradle. Sometimes, though, you have to search for it on your own.

Sarah Lennox, the heroine of Winter Baby, has almost given up searching. The child of a home that was broken and broken again, she has decided that, for her, home is a dream that will never come true. The closest she ever came to knowing that security was one magical summer in Firefly Glen, a tiny town high in the Adirondacks.

So when she finds herself pregnant and alone, that’s where she turns. She needs a peaceful place to hide while she sorts things out.

But instead of being swaddled in solitude and silence, Sarah finds herself instantly caught up in the madness and mayhem and pure sparkling magic that make up Firefly Glen. And somewhere between building ice castles and visiting puppies in the local jail, she finds herself doing the one thing a confused, abandoned, pregnant woman should never do. She falls in love.

And, most surprising of all, she finds a home.

Because when you peel away all the poetry and the philosophy, that’s what home really means—love.

Warmly,

Kathleen O’Brien

Winter Baby
Kathleen O’Brien

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Renie, with a kiss to put in your hand.

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 FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

SARAH LENNOX WASN’T SURPRISED the soufflé fell. It was difficult to focus on creating frothy dinner concoctions when you’d just discovered you were pregnant.

Minutes later, the soufflé began to burn, but she didn’t get up to rescue it. Instead, she sat on the edge of the tub, letting the acrid odor of scorching eggs fill her nose while she stared stupidly at the little pink x on the test strip.

It must be a mistake. It had to be a mistake.

She wasn’t going to have a baby. Not right now. She wasn’t even getting married for another fifty-nine days. And she wouldn’t begin having children until two years after that. That was the plan. The master plan. Ask anyone who knew her. Check any of her diaries since she’d been twelve years old. College. Career. Marriage. Wait two years just to be sure. Then children.

That was the plan. So this…this nonsense had to be a mistake.

But the counter was lined with these little strips, and they all had pink x’s on them. This was the fourth home pregnancy test she’d used tonight.

It was a mistake, all right. But it was her mistake, not the test’s.

The master plan was toast, just like her soufflé. She was definitely, disastrously, terrifyingly pregnant.

In the living room, the stack of Christmas CDs she’d put on an hour ago clicked and shifted and began playing “What Child Is This?” Cute. Very cute. She felt a faint urge to get up and break the CD in two, but she didn’t have the energy to follow through. Apparently shock and horror worked like a tranquilizer dart. She couldn’t move a muscle.

When the doorbell rang, she was confused, momentarily unable to remember whom she’d been expecting. It rang again, then again, short and hard, as if whoever it was didn’t much like waiting.

Her subconscious recognized that irritable ring. Of course. Ed. Her fiancé was coming for dinner. They’d had an 8:00 p.m. date. It was now 8:01, and he didn’t like tardiness. He had a master plan, too—and, if anything, it was even more rigidly scheduled than Sarah’s own. It had been one of the reasons she chose him in the first place. It was definitely one of the reasons she stuck with him, even though lately their relationship had been…a little rocky. Just a tiny bit unsatisfying.

Still, all relationships had their rocky moments. And Ed would make a good husband. She wasn’t the type to run around breaking off engagements. She wasn’t like her mother. When she gave her word, she meant it.

And now she had no choice. She was pregnant with Ed’s child. Pregnant. She made a small gasping sound, as if she couldn’t breathe around the fact.

She stood numbly, instinctively sweeping all the tiny test strips and empty pink boxes into the waste-basket. For a long moment she stared down at the debris, which seemed to represent the bits and pieces of her shattered master plan. How solid could the plan actually have been, she asked herself numbly, if it had been so easily destroyed?

Ed had given up ringing and was knocking now. Sarah actually half smiled at the frustrated annoyance in the sound. Poor Ed. If he didn’t like her being slow to answer the door, he was going to really hate the rest of his evening.

“Good God, what is that smell?” As Sarah opened the door, Ed started to signal his annoyance by one disapproving glance at his watch, but almost immediately his horror at the odor in the apartment superseded everything else. He wrinkled his aristocratic nose into a disgusted twist. “Sarah, for God’s sake. Have you burned dinner?”

“I think so,” she said. And then, because he was looking at her with an expression of complete incredulity, she realized that something else probably needed to be said. She wondered what it was. She felt as if she were speaking a foreign language. “I’m sorry?”

“Me, too,” he agreed curtly. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.” He sniffed the air again. “Have you turned off the oven?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, trying to remember. “No. I don’t think so.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you all right?” He didn’t wait for her answer. He moved into the kitchen with the assured purpose of a man in charge in his own home. But it wasn’t his home, Sarah thought suddenly. It was her home. Why did he feel that he was in charge?

Because somebody had to be. She obviously would burn the whole apartment complex down if somebody didn’t take over. Already the kitchen was filling with smoke.

After he flicked the thermostat off and determined that dinner was completely ruined, Ed let the oven door slam impatiently. He punched the exhaust fan to High, then returned to the living room, closing the kitchen door tightly behind him. The Christmas CDs were still playing, and the gentle pine scent of her tree fought with the nasty burned smell of dinner.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah said again, although she no longer felt very sorry. It was just a soufflé, after all. Why was Ed making such a big deal out of it? His handsome face couldn’t have looked sterner if she had just charbroiled the original copy of the Magna Carta. “Maybe we could order pizza.”

He looked at her silently, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak. Sarah felt the beginnings of rebellion stir. Was burning dinner really such a sin? In the early days she had thought Ed’s perfectionism was admirable, a sign that he possessed high standards. He expected a lot from others, but he required a lot of himself, too. For instance, Sarah knew that he would require himself to be a faithful, reliable husband, which was exactly what she wanted. What she needed. She had no intention of repeating her mother’s mistakes.

After Sarah’s father had been caught cheating, when Sarah was only eight, her mother had promptly divorced him. She’d spent the next several decades trying to find a replacement. But she was a rotten judge of men.

Sarah couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been determined to choose more wisely. She wanted someone sensible. Strong. Faithful. Someone with a plan.

Several times during the past few weeks, however, traitorous thoughts had crept in. He had sometimes seemed not admirable, but…pompous. Petty. Dictatorial.

Out of nowhere came a chilling thought. Someday he would turn that expression, that cold, unforgiving blue gaze, upon their child. Over a broken toy, a soiled diaper, a C in math. She felt a quick, primitive burning in her legs, as if they were straining to run somewhere far, far away—somewhere he couldn’t find her. Or the baby.

But this was crazy. It must mean that her hormones were already acting up. She’d better pull herself together, or she’d never find the courage to tell him.

“Chinese. How about Chinese?” Ed liked Chinese food. Maybe he was just hungry. Maybe he’d be less tense after he ate something. She smiled as pleasantly as she could. “My treat.”

“No.” He sighed from the depths of his diaphragm. “Oh, maybe it’s just as well. I really shouldn’t stay very long anyhow. I’ve got a lot to do tonight.”

He gestured toward the sofa, which was decorated with small needlepoint pillows that read “Peace on Earth” and “Joy to the World.”

“Sit down, Sarah,” he said somberly. “I have news.”

“Oh,” she said. She moved the pillows out of the way and sat. She looked up at him, trying to find the man she had fallen in love with, that handsome, twenty-eight-year-old former math teacher whose extraordinary maturity had made him the youngest high school principal in the state of Florida. That worthy man couldn’t have disappeared overnight.

She smiled the best she could. “I have news, too, Ed.”

He sat on the chair opposite her. “Let me go first,” he said. “Mine is very important.” He winced. “Oh, hell. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Somehow, still smiling, she waved away the insult. He’d know soon enough that her news was important, too. Life shattering, in fact. She tried to compose her face to look interested, but her mind couldn’t quite focus on anything except the new truth inside her.

What would he say? How would he feel? How, for that matter, did she feel?

After a moment she realized he wasn’t speaking. She glanced over at him, surprised to see him looking hesitant. Ed was rarely at a loss for words. At Groveland High School, where they both worked—Ed as principal, Sarah as Home Economics teacher—Ed was legendary for his ability to subdue hostile parents. He smothered every complaint under a soothing blanket of verbiage.

He cleared his throat, but still he didn’t begin. He looked around her tiny living room, then stood abruptly. “I can’t breathe in here, with all this smoke. Let’s go outside.”

Sarah felt a new unease trickle through her veins. What was this news that he found so difficult to share? But she followed him out onto the small balcony that overlooked the complex swimming pool. The air was balmy, typical December weather in south Florida. The colored holiday lights looped along nearby balconies blinked rather desperately, as if reassuring themselves that it really was Christmas, in spite of the heat.

Ed went straight to the railing and leaned against it, looking down at the turquoise pool, where several of Sarah’s neighbors were having a keg party. They were all dressed in Santa hats and bathing suits.

Sarah was suddenly eager to postpone whatever Ed had to say. Eager, too, to postpone her own devastating news. “Uncle Ward had hoped we could come spend Christmas with him in Firefly Glen,” she said. “Wouldn’t that have been lovely? White mountains and sleigh rides, and marshmallow roasts, and—”

“And four days snowed in with a bad-tempered, senile old man?” Ed shook his head. “No thanks.”

Sarah stared flatly at the stranger in front of her. “I never said he was senile.”

“Well, he’s almost eighty, isn’t he? Besides, I didn’t have the time, you know that.” Ed turned around, squaring his shoulders as if he had finally come to a decision. “Sarah. Listen.”

She stood very still and waited. A drunken chorus of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” wafted up from the party below, but she could still hear Ed’s fingers drumming against the railing.

“All right,” she said. “I’m listening.”

“They offered me the job, Sarah. The superintendent’s position. I’m going to California.”

She didn’t take her eyes from him. But she had heard the telling pronoun. “I’m” going to California. Not we. “I.”

“Congratulations.” She’d known he was applying for the job, a plum assignment as superintendent of schools in a small, affluent Southern California county. But she hadn’t really believed he’d get it. He was so young. He’d been a principal only a couple of years. But apparently he had wowed them in California, just as he wowed people everywhere, with his good looks, his sharp mind, his glib conversation.

“Sarah, do you understand? I’m going to California. Next month. Maybe sooner.”

“Yes, I understand.” But she didn’t, not really. “Are you saying you think we should postpone the wedding?”

He set his jaw—his square, well-tanned jaw…he really was so incredibly handsome—and licked his lips. “No. I’m saying I think we should call off the wedding.”

“What?” She couldn’t have heard him correctly.

He shook his head. “It’s not working, Sarah. I know you’ve sensed that, too. You must have. It’s just not the same between us. I know we haven’t wanted to admit it, but I don’t see how we can deny it any longer. And now, with me leaving…”

She waited. Her whole body seemed suspended in a weightless, airless space.

He looked annoyed, as if he had expected her to finish the sentence for him. “Well, now, with me leaving, it’s the right time to just admit it isn’t working, don’t you think?”

“What’s not working? What exactly isn’t working?”

He made an impatient noise, as if he felt she were being deliberately dense. “We’re not working. You’ve changed lately, you know that. You’ve been—well, to put it bluntly, Sarah, you’ve been bitchy for months. You criticize everything I do, for God’s sake, at school and at home. And it’s been weeks since you’ve wanted to make love, really wanted to. I know some of it is my fault. I’ve been busy. Preoccupied. Maybe I haven’t been as thoughtful as I should. I know I forgot your birthday.”

She closed her eyes on a small swell of nausea. He hadn’t forgotten her birthday. His florist had. For every major holiday, anniversary or birthday, his florist had a standing order to send her white roses. Ed had never even asked her whether she liked white roses. Which she didn’t.

She hated white roses, especially hothouse ones, which never quite opened and had no real scent. Why hadn’t that told her something, right from the start?

“Anyhow, it’s obviously not going to work. I’m sorry, Sarah. But this seems like the perfect time to make a clean break. Don’t you think so? With me leaving. Next month. Maybe sooner.”

She felt herself trembling with shock. And beneath the shock, but rising…something that felt like anger.

“No, actually, I don’t think so. Remember I said I had news, too? Well, here it is. I’m pregnant, Ed. I’m going to have a baby. Next July.” She smiled tightly. “Maybe sooner.”

For a moment, he reacted as if she had produced a gun and aimed it at his heart. He blinked. His mouth dropped open. He felt blindly with both hands for the metal railing behind him.

But he recovered quickly. He straightened to his manly six-four, a full foot taller than her own height, as if he could intimidate her into withdrawing her accusation by sheer size. He narrowed his eyes, closed his jaw and squeezed the railing so tightly his knuckles grew white.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said through clenched teeth. “It’s simply not possible. I have never had unprotected sex with anyone in my entire life. Never.”

She lifted her chin. “And I have never had sex with anyone but you,” she said. “So obviously we’re part of that small but unlucky percentage for whom the protection wasn’t quite infallible.”

He was shaking his head. “Impossible,” he said firmly. “Simply impossible.” After a moment, his face changed, and he moved toward her, his eyes liquid with a false pity. “Sarah. If this is some pitiful attempt to hold on, to try to keep me from going to California—”

When he got close enough, she slapped him. The sound rang out in a momentary lull in the partying below. Several Santa hats looked up toward her balcony curiously.

Ed rubbed his cheek, which was probably stinging. It was definitely red. “Good God, it’s true.” He looked bewildered. “It’s really true?”

“Yes, you bastard,” she whispered furiously. “Of course it’s true.”

He worried his lower lip, his unfocused gaze darting back and forth unseeingly, as if he were scanning his mind for options. “Well, no need to panic,” he said softly. She knew he was talking more to himself than to her. “It will be all right. There are lots of ways to fix this. It’s not even very expensive anymore.”

For a moment she thought she was going to be sick. Morning sickness already? At night? But then she realized it was pure, unadulterated disgust. Fix this? As if she were a bad bit of plumbing.

“Get out.” She pulled the sliding glass door open behind her with a savage rumble. “Get out of my house, and don’t ever come back.”

“Sarah, calm down.” He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she jerked away. “This isn’t the end of the world. Let me help you. At least let me write you a check—”

“Get out.”

He moved through the door, but at the threshold he paused again. He was trying to look concerned, but under that fake expression she glimpsed the truth. He was relieved that she was throwing him out. Relieved that he could scuttle away from the problem and still blame her for being unreasonable.

“I want to help you deal with this,” he said. “I’ll pay for whatever it costs. But remember, I won’t be here for long. I’m heading out to California next month, maybe—”

“I know,” she said. “Maybe sooner. As far as I’m concerned, it’s not soon enough. Or far enough. Now get out.”

A WEEK LATER, the gynecologist confirmed what the little pink x’s had told her so clearly that night. Sarah was going to have a baby next summer. Probably late June or early July. Congratulations.

But it still seemed unreal. Like a very, very long bad dream. As she entered her apartment, Sarah dropped her purse, her mail and her So You’re Having a Baby brochure on the coffee table. Then she dropped herself onto the sofa, like a puppet with cut strings.

Her answering machine was blinking. One call. It was probably Ed, who had left one message every day this week. Each time he said the same thing. “I’ve looked into it, and your insurance will cover the procedure. I’ll write you a check for any out-of-pocket expenses. But you need to hurry, Sarah. The sooner the better, as I’m sure you know.”

She pulled her feet up underneath her and rested her head on the softly upholstered arm, hugging her “Peace on Earth” pillow to her chest. Maybe she ought to call him back. Surely two people who were close enough to create a baby ought to be able to discuss what to do about having done so.

And perhaps Ed didn’t really mean what he was suggesting. He was shocked, just as she was. Maybe even a little frightened, though he’d never admit it. Neither of them was acting quite rationally.

Maybe she should call him. It was only six. He would be at home. His schedule was as familiar to her as her own. She could pick up the telephone right now. Yes, she should probably call, try to talk calmly.

But she didn’t move. She felt suddenly exhausted, as if she hadn’t slept in weeks. She didn’t want to talk to Ed. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. He had already planned to leave her, she reminded herself. He had already decided he didn’t want her. She felt her mind recoiling, rejecting the overload of emotion.

Her half-focused gaze fell on the coffee table, where the week’s mail still lay where she’d dropped it as she came in every day, unable to work up the energy to open it.

A few bills, a dozen Christmas cards.

But now she saw that one of the cards was from Uncle Ward. His brief return address was written in his familiar arrogant black scrawl: Ward Winters, Winter House, Firefly Glen, NY.

The sight was strangely comforting. She reached for the card, wondering if Uncle Ward had included one of his long, witty letters chronicling—and sometimes sharply satirizing—the goings-on in his little mountain town. How lovely it would be to escape, even for a few minutes, into Uncle Ward’s world.

The envelope was bulky. There was a letter. She settled back to read it, smiling her first real smile all week, suddenly hungry for the sound of her uncle’s voice.

The letter was filled with rich, amusing stories and with vivid, tempting descriptions of the beautiful snowy winter they were having. She came to the end reluctantly.

…And I can’t seem to make anyone see reason about the damned ice festival. Greedy politicians, all puffed up and self-important. I guess I’ll have to take matters into my own hands. But what about you, Sarah? Aren’t you ready for a real winter? Florida! Bah! What do palm trees and cockroaches have to do with Christmas? If your stick-in-the-mud fiancé won’t come, come without him. I’d like that even better, actually. This Ed guy sounds as if his life view is a little constipated.

Sarah caught herself chuckling. Ward was actually her great-uncle, and, while Ed had been wrong to call him senile, he’d been right to call him bad tempered. Ward was crusty and sardonic and demanding, but he was also tough and practical and wise. And entirely right about Ed.

She sat up, wondering how much a flight to Upstate New York cost these days. She didn’t feel quite as exhausted anymore. Maybe a dose of Uncle Ward was just exactly the bracing tonic she needed.

And maybe his quaint and quirky Firefly Glen, with its white mountains, its colorful architecture and its silly, small-town squabbles, was just the sanctuary she needed, too.

Firefly Glen. She had spent one summer there, back when she was thirteen. Her mother and her husband had been fighting through a nasty divorce, and she had been packed off to Uncle Ward while the grownups settled important matters, like who would get possession of the Cadillac and the mutual funds.

Her memories of that summer were emotional and confused, but they were surprisingly happy. Long, green afternoons walking with Uncle Ward in the town square, hearing rather scandalous stories of Firefly Glen’s history. Talking with him late at night in the library of his fantastic Gothic mansion, huddled over lemonade and popcorn and chess, and feeling understood for the first time in her life.

He was acerbic and affectionate, hot tempered and honest, and she had adored him. In August, her mother had collected her—in the Cadillac, of course. Her mother was very good at divorce, and would only get better with each failed marriage. Sarah’s life hadn’t allowed another long visit, but to this day, when she wanted to speak the truth—or hear it—she had called her Uncle Ward.

He and Firefly Glen had restored her then. Perhaps they could do the same now. She picked up the telephone. Surely somewhere in that gentle valley town, amid all that snowy silence, she could figure out what to do with her life.

CHAPTER TWO

AT EIGHT-THIRTY on Christmas Eve, both downtown streets of Firefly Glen were wet with an icy sleet, the shining asphalt crisscrossing at the intersection like two ribbons of black glass.

The temperature on the bank clock said twenty-nine degrees, but the garlands strung between the streetlights had begun to swing and twinkle, which meant the mountain winds had found their way through Vanity Gap and into the Glen. Sheriff Parker Tremaine, who was headed toward the large red-brick City Hall at the end of Main, huddled deeper into his fleece-lined jacket and decided that the real temperature was probably more like two below.

Still he took the street slowly. Every couple of minutes a car would crawl by, and the driver would wave or honk or even pull over to offer Parker a ride. But Parker would shake his head and wave them on. Call him crazy, but he wanted to walk.

He liked the cold, liked the swollen bellies of the clouds overhead—they’d probably deliver snow by morning. He liked the pinpricks of sleet against his cheeks and the tickle of wool against his ears.

He liked the peace of the hushed streets. He liked the way the stained-glass windows of the Congregational Church beamed rich reds and blues into the darkness.

Most of all, he liked knowing that most of the 2,937 “Glenners,” whom he’d been hired to protect, were safely tucked in for the night. The rest, the Fussy Four Hundred, as they were known in the Sheriff’s Department, were gathered in the assembly room of City Hall for an ice festival planning session.

Parker, who had just responded to a prowler call at the park—a false alarm, of course—was a little late to the meeting, which had begun at eight. By now the planning session had probably escalated from civilized discussion to hotheaded shouting, and Bourke Waitely was undoubtedly brandishing his cane like a weapon.

But the image didn’t make Parker hurry. As long as he got there before nine, he’d arrive in time to forestall any actual violence.

And when it was all over, he’d be off duty, and Theodosia Graham, who owned the Candlelight Café, had a hot, thick slice of pumpkin pie waiting for him.

“You’re one damned lucky man, Tremaine.”

Realizing he’d spoken out loud, Parker had to laugh. The chuckle formed a small white puff in the icy air, like a visible echo.

Lucky? Him? That was pretty damn funny, actually.

He was the thirty-four-year-old divorced sheriff of a tiny Adirondack town that gave bad winters a new meaning, and he was looking forward to spending Christmas Eve alone with a seventy-five-year-old spinster and a piece of pie.

Plus, apparently he’d begun talking to himself on the sidewalk, which back in Washington, D.C. would have scared all the other pedestrians into crossing the street.

Who in his right mind would call this lucky? He looked at himself in the window of Griswold’s Five and Dime. The only guy out here, shuffling along in a freezing rain, no wife waiting at home, no kids dreaming of sugarplums, not even a girlfriend dreaming of a diamond. The textbook illustration of a loser.

So what the hell did he have to be so smug about?

Nothing. He grinned at the guy in the window. Nothing except for the fact that, after twelve years of exile, he was home again. He had ditched a career he hated, even though everyone told him he was crazy to give it up. And the beautiful, bitchy wife he couldn’t please had finally ditched him, though everyone had told him he was nuts to let her go.

But he didn’t care. He liked being alone, and he liked being the sheriff of Firefly Glen. In fact, he was so damn pleased with his life that he decided he’d give Theo Graham a great big sloppy Christmas kiss.

“Sheriff! Sheriff, come quick! It’s an emergency!”

Parker looked over toward the emphatic voice. It was Theo. She had climbed down onto the front steps of City Hall, and she was leaning forward into the wind, her sweater wrapped tightly but inadequately around her bony shoulders.

He loped up the icy steps carefully, wondering what the problem was. Could he have misjudged the timing? Could Bourke Waitely actually have thumped someone with his cane? God, he hoped it hadn’t been Mayor Millner. Alton Millner would slap Waitely in jail just for the fun of it.

“What’s happened, Theo?”

“It’s Granville Frome,” Theo said as they hurried through the doors. “He was boring everybody to tears with tourism figures, you know how he is. So Ward Winters called him a greedy little pea-brain, and before you could say ‘stupid old coot’ Granville came around the table and knocked Ward to the floor. They were still down there, wrestling like a couple of crazed teenagers, when I came out to look for you.”

Parker shook his head. Ward Winters was usually smarter than that. Everybody in Firefly Glen knew that Granville Frome, who owned half the downtown property, wasn’t a greedy little pea-brain. Frome’s brain was much bigger than a pea, and his ego was considerably larger. And his temper was bigger still.

The scene inside was pure melee. So many people were standing around, waving their arms and shouting, that Parker had a hard time finding Ward and Granville. Finally he pushed his way through to the center of the room, where he saw the tangle of flannel and denim, long, bony limbs and mussed silver hair that constituted the two elderly combatants.

Granville’s grandson, Mike Frome, was leaning over the two old men, begging his grandfather to stop and plucking at any arm or leg that stood still long enough. Mike looked up as he saw the sheriff enter the room, and Parker could tell that the teenager had received a shiner for his efforts. Poor kid. He’d look like hell by morning.

“Sheriff! I’ve been trying—”

“Greedy son of a bitch!”

“Cave-dwelling Neanderthal!”

“Oh, God, Granddad, stop. Please, just stop!” Mike looked harried and embarrassed. “He won’t listen to me, Sheriff.”

“He probably can’t hear you.” Parker pointed to a couple of other men. “Sam. Griffin. Give us a hand here.”

It was a struggle, but the combined efforts of the four relatively young males finally pulled the two old scrappers apart. And then it took all four of them to keep them separated—two on Ward, two on Granville. The old men glared at each other, their chests heaving and their arms still straining to land one more punch, until gradually their breathing slowed.

Parker, who was in charge of Ward’s right arm, felt the slow return of common sense. The shoulder relaxed slightly, and the fist dropped to the old man’s side.

“Oh, all right, damn it,” Ward Winters said gruffly. “You can let go now. I won’t kill the stupid son of a—”

“You couldn’t kill me if you tried, you pathetic old bastard!”

The four guards tightened their grips as Granville Frome tried to lunge forward once again. Parker glanced over at Mike, who held his grandfather’s left shoulder in a determined clutch. “Mike, can you get him home?”

Mike nodded. He turned to Granville. “Grandmother is going to be really mad,” he said. “You promised her you’d behave if she let you come tonight.”

Ward Winters made a scoffing noise. “I should have known you’d let your wife tell you what to do, Granville, you pitiful little—”

Parker let his hold on Ward’s elbow tighten painfully. “Enough,” he said firmly, and Ward subsided with a low, unintelligible muttering.

Parker turned to the crowd. “This meeting is over, folks,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the din. “The weathermen are calling for six inches by sunup. Might be a good idea for everyone to head on home now.”

No one resisted, but still it took a while. Goodbyes between friends were slow, with warm Christmas messages sent home to loved ones. Between enemies, parting was even slower, with all parties vying to have the last word. And then it took forever for coats, scarves, hats and mittens to be divvied up and donned.

While Ward and Parker stood there, about ten women—all between the ages of sixty and eighty—stopped to be sure Ward was all right. Parker had to smile as he watched the ladies fuss over the old guy, smoothing his thick shock of wavy white hair, tenderly brushing dust from the sleeve of his blue flannel shirt and offering to deliver everything from aspirin to chicken soup in the morning.

Ward, whose lanky good looks had attracted women like this for most of his seventy-seven years, brushed them all off brusquely, but Parker noticed that a subtly flirtatious charm lay beneath the gruff exterior.

Add that to his mansion and his millions, and it was no wonder the ladies were enchanted. Roberta Winters, Ward’s wife, had died last year, and the women of Firefly Glen were lined up at the gate, hoping for a chance to be the next Mrs. Winters.

Parker wished them luck. But he had a feeling that Ward would be single for a long time. There weren’t many women in Firefly Glen—or in the entire world, for that matter—who could compete with Roberta Winters.

“So tell me the truth,” Parker said as he and Ward ambled out of the nearly empty meeting room. “Why are you so hell-bent on stopping the ice festival?”

Ward winced as he shoved his hand into his glove. “That blasted fool damn near broke my wrist.”

Parker let the silence stretch, waiting for his answer. Finally Ward turned to him with a scowl. “Why do I want to cancel the festival?” He growled under his breath. “Because I don’t want a bunch of morons crawling all over my town, clogging my streets and my air with their dirty cars. I don’t want the café crammed with their slobbery children. I don’t want to have to fight through a noisy horde of them to buy a stamp at Griswold’s. I don’t want to find them tramping across my lawn taking pictures of my house—my private house!”

He pulled his muffler tight around his neck, achieving an amazingly rakish look for a man his age. “And I damn sure don’t want them to move here. I don’t want them thinking that pretty patch of woodland over by Llewellyn’s Lake would be the perfect spot for their tacky new mansion.”

Parker chuckled. “You know, Ward, two hundred years ago the land where Winter House stands was probably forest, too.”

“I don’t care.” Ward waved his hand, then winced. His wrist must really be hurting him. “I don’t want them mucking up my town.” They were passing the one bar approved by the cautious city council, and Ward jabbed his forefinger toward its sign irritably. “Look at that! Cricket’s Hum Tavern? What the hell kind of name is that? Ever since we’ve started bringing in the tourists, we’ve become so damn cheesy I could just throw up.”

He started reading the signs as they walked. “Frog’s Folly Children’s Fashions. Candlelight Café. Black Bear Books. Duckpuddle Diner.” He made a face. “Duckpuddle Diner?”

“Yeah, I thought that one was a little much myself.”

“Well, if we’ve already sunk to Duckpuddle Diner, can Sweet Sally’s Smut Shoppe and the Lorelei Land-fill be far behind?”

Ward wasn’t really expecting an answer, and Parker didn’t give him one. He knew it was a legitimate debate, whether the town leaders should go looking for growth and prosperity or whether they should concentrate on keeping Firefly Glen safe and clean—and small.

The argument had been going on for two hundred years, and it wasn’t going to be solved tonight.

Besides, it was cold, it was late, and the two of them were basically on the same side of the debate anyhow. The Tremaine clan had been living in Firefly Glen just as long as the Winters family, and Parker’s love for this town was every bit as possessive and protective as the old man’s could ever be. Maybe more—because Parker had tasted life away from Firefly Glen, and he had found it bitter.

They reached Ward’s car just as the church bells rang out ten o’clock. Both men stood quietly, listening to the clear tones echo in the crisp silence of the Christmas air. The first few drifting flakes of snow fell slowly around them.

“You’re a good man, Parker,” Ward said suddenly. “I’m glad you decided to come home. And you’ve been a good sheriff, even if you were one of those damn political appointees, which are usually just about worthless.”

“Thanks.” Parker smiled, surprised. Even that backhanded compliment was uncharacteristically effusive for his crotchety friend. Had the sweetness of Christmas bells softened the old man up, or had Granville Frome landed a big one to Ward’s head?

Anyhow, it was ironic that Ward should say such a thing, on this same night when Parker had already been feeling so lucky. “Me, too. I like it here. I wasn’t sure, when I first came back. You know, after being in Washington. And I knew how Glenners felt about political appointments. But I like being the sheriff.”

“Yep. I thought you did.” Ward sighed. “That’s why I think it’s a damn shame your own brother-in-law would be such a son of a bitch as to run against you.”

Parker frowned, completely confused. His own brother-in-law…run against him…for what? He squinted. “What are you talking about?”

“About that snake Harry Dunbar.” Ward pointed toward the front window of the stationery store, which was run by Parker’s younger sister, Emma Tremaine Dunbar. “Sorry, son.”

And right there in the window, next to the display of Christmas cards and smiling Santas, was a sign. A campaign poster, to be precise.

Vote Dunbar For Sheriff, it said in red, white and blue letters. Because It’s Time For A Change.

SARAH GUIDED HER RENTAL CAR slowly, making her way through the sharply twisting curves of Vanity Gap without a lot of confidence. This wasn’t at all like driving in Florida. The narrow path was closely bordered by rugged, ice-capped granite walls, and though the road had obviously been cleared lately, new snow was already falling, obscuring the tarmac.

Now and then the granite walls would part, giving her a dizzying view of the steep mountainside that brought on a fierce wave of morning sickness. She tried to keep her eyes on the road, her breakfast down and her courage up. But what, oh, what had made her think she could handle this?

She had hoped to get here in time to spend Christmas with her uncle, but the details had swamped her. Arranging for a six-week leave of absence from her teaching position hadn’t been easy, and then the minutiae of closing down her apartment—stopping mail and electricity, farming out plants, throwing out food and saying goodbye to friends—had seemed to take forever.

Still, she had managed to free herself by New Year’s Day, which had felt like a good omen. The perfect time to be making a new start.

She had landed at the Albany airport this morning with fairly high hopes, but now, after two hours of mountain driving, she was beginning to wonder whether she should have stayed in Florida. What exactly had she accomplished by running away? And why here, so far from home and everything she understood? What if her memories of Firefly Glen were romanticized by time and youth? What if it was just a grim, bleak, cold little hole in the mountains?

All of a sudden, like a spectacular surprise designed by a movie director, her car finally broke through the gap, revealing the valley below.

Sarah pulled onto the overlook, letting the car idle as she stared, utterly enchanted. Firefly Glen lay before her like a toy village arranged on a coffee table, too perfect to be true.

It was a clear, crisp morning, the sun round and winter-white. The snow glistened like crushed diamonds on the branches of trees, the rooftops of houses and the steeples of the churches. That tall one, on the eastern edge of town—that was the Congregational Church, Sarah remembered suddenly. The golden bells in that steeple had rung out the hours here for more than two hundred years.

The whole village was heavily wooded, as if it had nestled itself into these mountains back in the 1700s without disturbing a single leaf. On the western border of town, the Tallulah River winked in and out of white-frosted elms and hickory pines like a ribbon of silver sequins.

The entire scene exuded beauty, permanence and peace. Sarah leaned her head against the car window, overcome by a strange sense of longing. It would be good to belong to a place like this.

But she didn’t. She wasn’t sure she belonged anywhere anymore. Suddenly she felt intensely isolated here on this mountain, removed from the simple charm of Firefly Glen, exiled from those solid, cozy homes with soft gray plumes of smoke rising from their red-brick chimneys.

Alone. She fought back stupid tears and uncomfortable nausea with equal determination.

It’s hormones. Just hormones, she reminded herself bracingly. Everyone knew that pregnant women were irrationally emotional. She had to stop giving in to it, stop this maudlin self-pity. She was alone on the mountaintop only because she had stopped to appreciate the view.

But the nausea…

That was very real.

She stumbled out of the car and lurched over toward the trees, her boots crunching on snow. In spite of the freezing air, sweat beaded on her forehead and upper lip. She leaned against the smooth white bark of a birch, closed her eyes and concentrated on taking deep breaths.

To her dismay, she heard another car approaching. She held her breath, hoping it would go on by, but it didn’t. It paused, slowed, and then, tires rolling over the snow, eased onto the overlook.

It was a rather large black SUV that dwarfed her small rental car. Firefly Glen Sheriff’s Department, the gold lettering across the side panel announced. Two people were in it, a male driver, and a female passenger next to him.

The driver had rolled down his window and leaned his head out.

“Everything okay here?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Sarah called, glad to discover that it was almost true. The wave of nausea was passing. It would return, she knew, but for now the relief was blissful. She smiled at the man, noticing the gleaming gold star on his black leather jacket.

The sheriff himself. She tried to remember any stories her uncle might have told about this man, but came up blank. She moved closer to the Jeep, to demonstrate that she was safe and unharmed…and harmless. “I’m really fine. I was just enjoying the view.”

He smiled back. Even from this distance, she could tell it was a dynamite smile, white and wide and charmingly cocked toward one side. For just a flash of an instant, she forgot she was a recently ditched, slightly desperate, pregnant schoolteacher. For one lovely second her stomach did a very different, very pleasant little flip, the kind it used to do when she was a teenager.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” He glanced toward the Glen below them, then returned his smile to her. “We look even better up close,” he said, apparently completely unaware of any double entendre. “So. Are you headed our way?”

She nodded, knowing that underneath the friendliness he was appraising her, as any good sheriff would, deciding whether she was a problem that needed controlling. “In a few minutes.”

“If you’d like, we can follow you.” He waved a hand toward the winding mountain road. “Make sure you’re okay.”

But she didn’t want to do that. Her stomach was settled for now, but what if it started acting up again once she was back in motion? She couldn’t imagine herself screeching to a halt, tumbling out of her car and getting sick on the snowbanked side of the road—all right in front of the horrified eyes of this man.

It had nothing to do with how good-looking he was, she assured herself. In her condition, she was hardly in the market for any man. It was just—well, it just wasn’t the first impression she wanted to make on the residents of this town.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Really. I don’t want to hold you up.”

“I’d hate for you to get lost,” he began, but suddenly the woman next to him broke in.

“For heaven’s sake, Parker, maybe she doesn’t want a sheriff’s escort. It’s one road, less than a mile. A straight shot. No forks, no detours, no nothing. Even a woman can handle that.”

Sarah looked curiously toward the female who was speaking, but the shadows in the SUV were too dark to make out much. One of his deputies? She wasn’t taking a very subservient tone for a subordinate.

The sheriff shook his head and tugged at his ear in frustration. He looked a little embarrassed. But he was still smiling. “It has nothing to do with whether she’s a man or a woman, Emma.”

“Oh, really?” The female voice was equal parts amusement and sarcasm. “Is that so?”

With a sigh, the sheriff turned back to Sarah. “I’m sorry. I certainly didn’t mean to…to be patronizing…I mean, to imply…” He gave up, chuckling helplessly. “Well, anyway, welcome to Firefly Glen.”

Then, with a smile, he shifted his Jeep into reverse and prepared to exit the overlook.

He paused in a shaft of sunlight that spotlighted the most amazingly gorgeous man Sarah had ever seen. Black hair, blue eyes…and that smile so sexy it had the power to transform a beleaguered woman into a giddy teenager. But, she saw now, it also had warmth. Warmth enough to make a total stranger feel suddenly befriended.

“I’m Sheriff Parker Tremaine,” he said. “And if you need anything at all while you’re visiting our town—”

The woman, a pretty twenty-something with hair as dark as the sheriff’s, leaned back, letting out a laughing groan. “Oh, brother. Dudley Do-Right.”

The sheriff shook his head. “Sorry. This is my sister. She’s a little crazy. Recently escaped. I’m taking her in.” He lifted his right elbow to fend off a friendly blow from the woman. “But don’t let her scare you away. Most of us down there in the Glen are perfectly sane.”

EMMA HAD ATTRACTED quite a crowd with her story, and Parker thought if she didn’t shut up pretty soon he really was going to toss her in jail.

Not that they had any room in the jail. Suzie, his part-time clerk, had turned the one holding cell into a replica of the Bethlehem manger, complete with papier-mâché cows and a baby-doll Jesus that, if anyone touched him the wrong way, said in a rather disturbing, machinelike voice, “Betsy needs a new diaper.”

He had hoped that Suzie would take it down now that the new year was here, but she had bristled at the suggestion. Suzie, a seventeen-year-old high school junior, was gunning for an interior design scholarship to NYU, and she expected her manger to clinch the deal. She wasn’t letting anyone dismantle a single straw of hay until she had good pictures for her résumé.

So Parker really had no choice but to let Emma keep regaling the customers of the Candlelight Café with her reenactment of Parker’s rescue on the mountaintop.

“But won’t you let me escort you down the mountain, miss?” Emma’s voice was a syrupy, annoying imitation of Parker’s own. “I am the valiant Sheriff of Firefly Glen. I can protect you.”

Parker growled. Even though Emma was now twenty-six and about to celebrate her first wedding anniversary, she would always be his annoying little sister. They had lost their parents in a car accident three years ago, and the tragedy had been one of the reasons he’d decided to come back to Firefly Glen. He hadn’t liked the idea of Emma here without any family at all. But the move had certainly left him at the mercy of her irrepressible teasing and, even worse, her incessant matchmaking.

“Damn it, Emma, give it up. I just asked the woman if she needed help. It’s my job, remember?”

Emma grinned and tucked into the pumpkin pie Theo Burke had just placed in front of her. “Yeah, but if she’d been a three-hundred-pound logger with a face like a gargoyle, I’ll bet you wouldn’t have stopped.” She turned to her audience. “This lady was gorgeous. Petite, honey-blond hair, great body. Dudley Do-Right here was practically drooling on his boots.”

Parker held out a napkin. “Shut up, Emma. Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

While she chewed, somehow he diverted the conversation, subtly leading Theo and the other customers in a debate about the ice festival, a subject that was always good for a distraction. Eventually the others wandered off, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Emma could be a royal pain. But he had to admit—at least to himself—that she had been right about one thing. The woman on the overlook had been a knockout. He found his thoughts circling back to their encounter, over and over. She’d been underdressed for the weather, with only a green turtleneck sweater, jeans and a pair of boots. But the sweater had outlined a body that was darned near perfect. And her face had been more than pretty. He remembered the vulnerable curve of her cheek, almost as soft as a child’s. It made an interesting contrast with the strength he had glimpsed in her hazel eyes, the hint of determination in her chin.

Fascinating. He wondered who she was visiting. But that was the advantage of living in such a tiny town. Sooner or later, he’d run into her.

“What’s the matter with you, Emma Tremaine?” Theo Burke had appeared at their side, holding a second piece of pie for Parker. He grimaced. After a sugar rush like this, he’d have trouble staying awake all afternoon. But Theo would be hurt if he didn’t eat it. And besides, it was the food of the gods.

Emma looked up questioningly, her mouth still full of pie.

“Trying to get Parker interested in this woman on the mountain.” Theo scowled. “You don’t want to hook him up with another out-of-towner, do you?”

Emma shrugged, tossing her dark brown bob, the same haircut she’d had since high school. “Well, we’ve got to get him hooked up with someone, don’t we?” Her blue eyes, so like Parker’s own that it was like looking into a mirror, began to dance. “I’m not getting any younger, Theo,” she said plaintively. “I want to be an aunt.”

Theo narrowed her eyes, considering. Though she herself was a spinster, she had appointed herself the official town matchmaker, and she took her job seriously. “Still, there must be a suitable woman here in the Glen—”

Down the next row of tables, someone dropped a plate with a splintering crash. Theo didn’t bother to finish her sentence. She rushed over, ready to comfort her inconvenienced customer and to chasten her clumsy employee with one quick, deadly look.

Parker and Emma shared an amused glance. Theo Burke was famous for treating her customers like royalty. The Candlelight Café lived up to its name. Every table really did have an ivory taper set in a silver candlestick. And real linen, too. Theo trained her teenage waiters to what she called “French standards.” It amused the customers, but it kept them coming back. Where else could you get five-star service with your French fries?

“Seriously, though, Parker—” Emma toyed with the last bit of piecrust on her plate “—aren’t you interested in ever getting married?”

“I’ve been married,” he said calmly, drinking his coffee. “It wasn’t that much fun.”

“Yeah, but you married a bitch.” Parker gave his sister a quizzical look, and she bristled defensively. “Well, I’m sorry. But you did. The way she acted when you decided to come back to the Glen! Man, was she ever a witch.”

Parker put his coffee cup down. “Well, you can’t really blame her. Tina liked being married to a member of the Secret Service. It impressed her friends. And she thoroughly enjoyed having affairs with all the cutest politicians in Washington.” He grinned at his sister. “Apparently she couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for cheating on the sheriff of Firefly Glen.”

Emma eyes were as dark as mud. “I’d like to find that woman and—”

“Let it go, Emma,” Parker said lightly. “A lot of it was my fault, too. She didn’t start out being a bitch.”

That was true. He remembered how hypnotized he had been by Tina’s exciting body, her cover-girl face—the sophisticated pampering she’d showered on him, purring and seducing and flattering.

And he’d never forget how hot they had been for each other. Or how alarmingly fast that heat had burned itself out.

“That’s partly why I’m not eager to try it again.” He heard the sober note in his voice, and he was sure Emma recognized it, too. “Not unless I’m sure. I would have to be one hundred percent positive it’s the perfect woman.”

Emma’s expression was suddenly wistful, her earlier effervescence dissipated. “I don’t think that’s possible, Parker,” she said softly. “Nothing’s ever really perfect.”

He could have kicked himself. Though Emma never outright acknowledged it, he knew something was wrong in her marriage. She’d married Harry Dunbar, Parker’s deputy sheriff, just last year, and for a few months, things had seemed fine. But lately Emma’s natural buoyancy had flattened out. Something was definitely wrong.

Harry had been out of town since before Christmas, visiting his family in New York City. Emma hadn’t gone with him, something Parker couldn’t understand. Their first Christmas, and they spent it apart?

And there was the problem of the upcoming election. Apparently Harry had decided to run against Parker, which made for a damn sticky family situation. Harry had been pretty ticked off last year when, after the old sheriff’s death, the governor had appointed Parker to take over. Harry had fully expected to get the nod. After all, he’d been the deputy sheriff here for years.

So it was not really a shock to discover that Harry planned to oppose him in the election. He might win, too. Harry had lived in Firefly Glen all his life—a real plus with the voters. Some people around here considered Parker a traitor. It was okay to go off to college—everyone did that—but you were supposed to come right back. Parker hadn’t. He’d stayed away for eight extra years, getting his law degree, being a “big shot” in Washington. A member of the Secret Service. “Putting on airs,” Mayor Millner had called it once when he thought Parker wasn’t listening. Glenners didn’t care for “airs.”

Obviously Harry hadn’t consulted Emma about his decision. Rumor had it that Emma had ripped down Harry’s campaign poster the minute she saw it. She had apologized to Parker, and her repressed anger was obvious. He wondered what she had said to Harry.

But she wouldn’t talk about it. In fact, she still insisted everything was fine. And when Harry wasn’t around, like today, she was so much her normal playful self that Parker could forget.

“I know nothing’s perfect,” he said, reaching across the table to lay his hand over Emma’s. He was horrified to discover that it was trembling. “But we don’t have to settle for anything really bad, either, Emmy.”

She looked up and tried to grin. It was such a failure that Parker suddenly wanted to find Harry Dunbar and beat him senseless. “I mean it. We have a right to be happy,” he said tightly.

“Then get married and make me an aunt,” she said, banishing her gloom with an obvious effort. “That’s what would make me happy.”

CHAPTER THREE

AFTER HER ODD but appealing encounter with the sheriff, Sarah’s mood changed completely, and she entered the township of Firefly Glen with a light heart and a happy sense of New Year optimism.

She hardly recognized the place. Winter had completely transformed the summer playground of that visit so long ago. Carrot-nosed snowmen stood sentry at each corner of the town square where she and Uncle Ward had once played Frisbee and licked their melting ice cream from sticky fingers. And the leafy green maples where the Frisbee had finally gotten stuck were now just delicate brown skeletons against the dove-gray sky.

For a lifelong Southerner like Sarah, the sight was pure magic. She drove slowly, drinking in every detail. The shopkeepers here obviously didn’t feel that the arrival of January meant that Christmas decorations must come down. Windows, doorways, streetlights and storefronts were looped with deep green pine garlands threaded with velvety red ribbons. The large tree in the center of the square shone with huge red balls and small twinkling white lights.

And to Sarah’s surprise, the placid serenity she had imagined as she stood on the mountain looking down had been merely an illusion. What a world of teeming life these few blocks held, in spite of the freezing cold and the snow that still fell lightly.

The sign she’d passed on the way in had proclaimed that Firefly Glen had 2,937 residents. Surely every one of them was out here today, bundled up in puffy blue coats, cherry-red knitted hats, green-and-navy-checkered mittens and bright yellow mufflers.

As she watched one little toddler struggle to walk, as stiff-legged as the Michelin Man in his padded snowsuit, she cast a doubtful look at her own light gray wool-blend coat, which lay across the back seat of the rental car. It had been the best she could find at the department stores in Tampa, but she suddenly realized that it wasn’t going to be nearly warm enough for the rigors of a New York winter.

She thought of the long, twisting walk up the path to the front door of Uncle Ward’s medieval mansion. In that flimsy coat, she’d be frozen solid before she had a chance to rap the massive brass knocker. They might not find her until spring.

She began searching the names of the stores she passed, looking for something that might save her.

Adirondack Outerwear. Yes, that sounded perfect. Gratefully she slipped the car into one of the designated parking spaces. Clenching her teeth against the sharp bite of wind, she darted into the store, hoping her charge card could handle the extra expense.

A sweet-toned little bell announced her arrival, but no one came to greet her. In fact, at first sight, the store seemed deserted, the coats hanging abandoned on circular racks, the multicolored mittens lying in neat, forgotten rows under empty glass countertops.

But as Sarah made her way toward the back, she realized that she was not alone. Something was going on at the back of the shop, near the cash register. All the salesclerks—and several people who looked like customers, as well—were clustered around the counter.

A sales meeting? It didn’t sound like it. In fact, as she stood, wondering, the voices grew louder. It quickly became clear that she had stumbled into some sort of fracas. One person was waving a newspaper, and about four other people began talking at once.

Feeling like something of an intruder, Sarah considered trying to sneak out again. But her curiosity got the better of her. What, in an idyllic hamlet like this, could be making everyone so hot tempered?

She fingered a few coats not far from the action, shamelessly eavesdropping. She couldn’t help being curious about the people here. The anecdotes in Uncle Ward’s vivid letters had made her feel as if she knew them.

“It’s libel, I tell you. It’s actionable. I can prove damages—”

“He can’t do this! I won’t make it through the winter without the profits from the festival!”

“Damn it, Tremaine, if you can’t do something about that bad-tempered old hermit—”

Tremaine? Sarah looked up, wondering if it could be the sheriff she’d met on the mountain. It was hard to see through the crowd, but finally the agitated people shifted, clearing the way. And there he was.

Sheriff Parker Tremaine, his gold star still resting on the soft black leather of his jacket, was the man at the core of the debate, the authority to whom they all appealed. No question it was the same man. Same wavy, dark hair, same startlingly blue eyes. Same tip-tilted smile on the same generously chiseled lips she had admired once before. Apparently he wasn’t exactly terrified of the annoyed crowd around him.

Sarah caught her breath. She had found him fairly eye-catching before, but obviously seeing Parker Tremaine from the neck up didn’t tell the whole story. As she watched him leaning back against the cashier’s counter, listening to the escalating complaints, Sarah finally got the full effect of his long, lazy limbs and tight, narrow hips.

He was even better looking than Ed, she realized. And yet, he had a kindness in his expression that Ed hadn’t ever exhibited. Even more appealing, he seemed comfortably indifferent to his looks. His jacket was well-worn, fitting his broad shoulders with a fluid familiarity. His hair was just wavy enough to be unruly, but she saw no sign that Parker cared. Where Ed had always been obsessively gelling or spraying, Parker’s hair was merely cut and combed and then ignored. But the result was an unintentional sexiness, as if that slight disarray invited someone to smooth it into place.

Her hands unconsciously stroked the silky fabric of the coat she held. Yes, she concluded, Parker Tremaine wore his sex appeal the same way he wore that shiny badge on the breast of his black leather jacket—lightly. As though both of them were fun but ultimately unnecessary.

She hadn’t realized she was staring until she saw that Parker was looking right at her. Even from this distance, she could tell that there was a pleased recognition in his gaze.

Maybe she could help. In a way, she owed him. He had offered to rescue her on the mountain, and he had, without realizing it, actually done so. She hadn’t needed a jump start or a can of gas or a new tire. But she had needed that smile, that simple gesture of welcome. He had rescued her confidence, her optimism. He had given her the courage to make it that last mile down the mountain.

She spoke up quickly, just loud enough to be heard over the clamor of voices. “Excuse me? I’m sorry to interrupt, but is there anyone who might be able to tell me about this coat?”

Everyone turned toward her, apparently shocked to discover that there was a witness. Sarah felt herself flushing, slightly uncomfortable at being the center of attention, but then she caught Parker Tremaine’s eye one more time, and he was giving her that special smile. She smiled back, but she felt the flush deepen.

“I’m sorry. May I help you?” Two salesclerks came over instantly, chagrined. The rest of the people dispersed edgily, talking to one another in lowered tones, as if wondering what imprudent comments this stranger had overheard.

Sarah pretended to listen to the saleswoman extolling the virtues of Polarweave technology—something about storm cuffs and synthetic insulation and temperature ratings—but she was really watching as Parker Tremaine made his escape through the confused crowd.

As he passed her, he winked conspiratorially in her direction. “Thanks,” he mouthed, and she found herself grinning stupidly back, as if she really had done something heroic.

“Damn it, Tremaine, you can’t get out of here without promising you’re going to do something about that selfish old bastard.”

One of the men from the crowd, a seventy-ish, self-important type with a red face and a snub nose, had followed the sheriff to the door and was obviously not going to give up easily.

Parker sighed, pulling on black leather gloves as he shouldered open the shop’s front door. A blast of freezing air hit the front of the store, driving the older man back, as the sheriff had no doubt expected it to do.

“I’ll take care of it,” Parker said firmly as he zipped up his jacket and prepared to exit. “This festival is going to take place even if I have to lock Ward Winters in the county jail until spring.”

Ward Winters?

But Sarah was too shocked to say a word. And with a melodic ringing of door bells, Parker Tremaine departed, leaving her standing there, with an expensive black Polarweave coat in her arms and a stupid, disbelieving smile fading from her lips.

FOR THE THIRD TIME, Emma Tremaine Dunbar sat down in the back office of her stationery store, The Paper House, to proof the copy for the Kemble baby announcement.

She prayed that the front door chimes didn’t sound. It seemed ridiculous to hope for bad business, but she couldn’t afford to get called away again. She had promised Harry that she’d close early. He wanted to have lunch at home together. He wanted to have a “serious talk.”

But this announcement had to get to the printer today, or the Kemble family would be justifiably furious. If only she thought Harry would understand. He liked the money her store brought in, but he seemed to think it took care of itself. He didn’t accept that Emma should ever be busy when he needed her.

Darn. There were three typos. She swiveled to the computer, punching in the keys as fast as she could, trying to call up the Kemble file. She glanced nervously at the clock overhead. It was one. She was already late.

The door chimes rang out. Emma stifled a groan, mentally begged the file to open more quickly, then stood up to return to the sales floor.

But this time it wasn’t a customer. It was Harry.

He wasn’t in uniform. Harry didn’t work on Monday. His days off were Monday and Tuesday, about which he complained bitterly, blaming Parker for designing an unfair schedule. Emma had pointed out once that Parker’s own schedule was even worse—he didn’t even get two days off in a row—but Harry didn’t care. Whenever anything displeased him these days, it was always Parker’s fault.

Or Emma’s. She looked at Harry’s tight face and wondered why he was still so unhappy. Last year had been so different. Back before Parker had moved home and snagged the job Harry had wanted. Before the other bad news, before they had discovered that they…

Well, just before. They had been happy then. They had laughed—a lot. Now she couldn’t remember the last time Harry had even smiled.

And yet, in spite of his frown, he looked so darling today, in that brown suede jacket she’d given him for his birthday, which matched his brown hair perfectly. Her heart did a couple of hot little thumps, thinking how much she loved her husband—and yet how little she seemed to be able to comfort him.

“I knew I’d find you here,” he said stiffly. “I knew you’d forget I had asked you to come home for lunch.”

“I didn’t forget,” she said, vowing not to take offense. “I had customers.”

He looked around the empty store, commenting silently on its emptiness.

“And then I had an order to proof.” She felt her patience giving out on her. “Come on, Harry. You aren’t always able to get home on time, either. Do I give you this kind of grief about it?”

He tightened his lips. “I don’t think you can really equate the two, do you? I think enforcing the law might be just a little more significant than sending out invitations to Birthday With Bozo.”

Emma stared at him helplessly. She wanted to go up to this sour, embittered man and grab him by his suede collar and shake him until he told her what he had done with her real husband. Or else she wanted to go up and kiss him until he thawed, until he remembered that he was special, no matter what had happened to make him feel so insecure. Until he remembered that she loved him, and she always would.

But she’d already tried those things, more or less. And they hadn’t worked. They’d only driven him deeper into his emotional hole. Apparently he didn’t want to get better. And he didn’t like it that she seemed to be able to move on, to put together a happy life in spite of the grim disappointments they had endured this past year.

Her strength didn’t sustain him. It only made him feel even more inferior.

But she wouldn’t be weak just to please him. She wouldn’t drown with him, no matter how much she loved him.

“Well, we’re together now. How about if I lock the door, and we can have our conversation here? What did you want to talk about?”

He raked his hand through his hair. “You know what. The poster. I want you to explain to me why you took it down. I want to know why you aren’t willing to campaign for your own husband. I want to know why, when the income from my career supports you, too, you can’t do even that one little thing to help me win.”

Emma’s heart was beating rapidly. Stalling, she arranged herself on the edge of the nearest table, careful not to dislodge the large sample books of cards and invitations. She took a deep breath and gave Harry a steady look.

“That’s not a conversation,” she said. “That’s an interrogation.”

“I don’t care what you call it. I want some answers.”

“So do I.” She folded her hands in her lap, to help her resist the temptation to choke him. “I want to know why you’d put me in the embarrassing, distressing position of having to choose between my brother and my husband.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “And I want to know,” he said, his voice acid, “why that choice should be even the slightest bit difficult.”

The urge to shake him grew stronger. Was it possible he really didn’t understand this? That his self-absorption had become so complete that he couldn’t imagine what she was feeling?

“Because I love you both, you idiot. Because you and Parker are the two most important people in the world to me. I can live with the fact that you are competing for the same job. But I will not be forced to take sides.”

“You’re already taking sides. If you don’t publicly support me, it makes me look bad. Everyone will know what that means.”

“I disagree,” she said, still striving to be rational. “I think it makes you look good. It shows that you’re not eager to make this campaign any more uncomfortable for your family than it has to be. It makes you look as if you’re sensitive to your wife’s dilemma. Even if you’re not.”

He made an angry gesture. “Oh, so now I’m not sensitive, either?”

“Harry, for heaven’s sake—”

To her dismay, the front door chimed, and a customer walked in. Oh, God, she had forgotten to lock the door. The tension of living with this new Harry was making her absolutely crazy.

It was a middle-aged woman. A tourist. You could tell by her deep copper suntan, something you never saw on the faces of locals. She was dusting snow from her shoulders, oblivious to the fact that she was shaking it onto the Valentine’s display Emma had just begun to assemble, where it would melt and ruin everything it touched.

The woman patted her big, teased helmet of preposterous yellow hair, transferred her huge designer purse from one hand to another and scanned the store avidly. “Have you marked down your Christmas cards yet?”

Emma stood politely. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll show you where they are. Just give me a minute to—”

But Harry was already gone.

THE COAT HAD COST her three times what she could afford, but as Sarah trudged up the winding path toward Winter House, which sat at the top of a small, snow-covered hill, she decided it was worth every penny.

Though it was only about two in the afternoon, the temperature had begun to drop, and the light had taken on a bluish cast, as if twilight were impatiently pressing against the sun. The falling snow was thicker now, and with every step Sarah’s feet sank into several inches of fresh white powder.

Looking up toward the mansion, Sarah saw that it, too, had been transformed by winter. In that long-ago summer, to the thirteen-year-old Sarah who had harbored here, Winter House had seemed like a happy, honey-colored, sun-kissed castle. The hill it stood on had been kelly-green, and the surrounding lush parkland of oaks had softened the mansion’s asymmetrical lines.

It was different now, in this stark setting. It was more like some mysterious, silent abbey—dark and complicated and vaguely forbidding. For the first time, she could see that the mansion had been aptly titled. Even if its owners had been named Smith, this would have been Firefly Glen’s Winter House.

It was a typical nineteenth-century Gothic mansion of fawn-colored stone. Its eccentric, disorderly silhouette of crenellated towers, steeply pointed arches crested with fleur-de-lis, wide oriel windows, turrets, spires and gables stood out boldly against the low, oppressive pewter sky.

Rising from its bare and snow-covered hill, it looked like the ultimate temple of winter: cold and hauntingly beautiful.

When Sarah finally reached the huge oak doors, which were decorated with bold iron strap hinges and a brass lion’s mouth knocker, she almost expected it to swing open with a creak, revealing a shuffling, half-mad hunchback.

Instead, the door was answered by a charming woman of about sixty-five, with silver hair impeccably groomed, pink lips, sparkling brown eyes, and a trim figure displayed to advantage in a shirtwaist dress patterned in giant yellow tulips, as if in defiance of the weather.

At the sight of Sarah, the woman smiled sweetly and swept the door wide.

“Oh, how wonderful, you must be Sarah. Ward has told me so much about you. It’s just marvelous to meet you. Just an absolute delight. Come in, come in. You must be freezing. Give me your coat—what a lovely coat. Your uncle will be so happy. I’m Madeline Alexander, dear, a great friend of your uncle’s.”

Apparently without drawing a breath, she whisked Sarah’s coat away, hung it on a large oak hall stand and kept talking.

“Yes, a very great friend. In fact, dear, I’ll tell you a secret,” she said as she led Sarah by the arm through the enormous, wood-paneled front hall, moving so briskly that Sarah barely had time to register the ribbed, vaulted ceiling and thick tapestries draped along the walls. “I’m probably going to marry your uncle Ward someday.”

Sarah hesitated without thinking, pulling the older woman to an abrupt stop. “What?” Her uncle’s letters had never even mentioned anyone named Madeline.

Madeline smiled peacefully. “Well, he doesn’t know it yet, of course. And you don’t need to mention it to him—it would only upset him.” She patted Sarah’s shoulder with a beautifully manicured hand. “It’ll just be our little secret, all right?”

Sarah began walking again, unsure what else to do. Madeline seemed quite in control of the situation, and completely at home in the mansion. “Your uncle is in the library. He does love the library, doesn’t he? Although I think it’s rather gloomy. Those stained-glass windows may be quite valuable, but they do strange things to the light, don’t they? Right here, dear. I keep forgetting it’s been so long since you’ve visited. You probably don’t remember where the library is.”

But Sarah did remember. The library had been her favorite room, too. She and her uncle had spent many a happy hour here, lost in deep, philosophical conversations over a game of chess. Uncle Ward had been the world’s best listener, and his young, unhappy great-niece had had much she wanted to say.

Suddenly she was so eager to see her uncle that she wanted to burst through those doors and wrap her arms around him. She felt a burning behind her eyes, thinking of him living in this huge, strange mansion, all alone now that Aunt Roberta was gone. She wanted to hold him close, to apologize for letting Ed stop her from coming to Aunt Roberta’s funeral. And she wanted to thank him for extending his friendship, opening his haven—on that long-ago summer, and again today, when she was almost as vulnerable as she had been at thirteen.

But that was probably just the hormones acting up again. With effort she restrained herself. Effusive boiling over of affection wasn’t Uncle Ward’s style. If such feelings were ever to be shared between them, it would be more subtle. Indirectly, through a seemingly impersonal discussion of art or literature or theater, they would make their emotions understood.

So Sarah hung back, letting Madeline, who obviously relished acting as mistress of the mansion, throw open the ornate doors and announce her formally.

It took a moment for Sarah’s eyes to adjust to the light, what little there was. Red and yellow stained-glass windows made up one whole wall of the library, and the winter sun was just barely strong enough to penetrate. The result was that everything—leather-bound books, mahogany tables, Oriental carpets and people alike—seemed washed in a watery golden glow.

Sarah had been expecting to see her uncle enthroned here in lonely splendor. But as her vision cleared she saw that at least four other people were in the room.

Two women of approximately Madeline’s age perched in the window seat, pouring tea from a tea set that probably was silver but glowed an eerie bronze in the strange light. Her uncle sat in his usual chair—his throne, Aunt Roberta had always teasingly called it. It was a heavy, carved monstrosity with serpent arms and lion’s claw feet.

And in the chair beside him sat another man. This had been Sarah’s chair, that summer. The chair of honor. The chair of the chosen chess partner, the lucky confidant, the favored friend.

She squinted, unable to believe her eyes. But it was true. The man who sat in that chair today was the sheriff of Firefly Glen. The man who, just half an hour ago, had threatened to put her uncle in jail.

CHAPTER FOUR

SARAH WENT FIRST to her uncle, surrendering in spite of herself to the overwhelming impulse to envelop him in a tight hug. For a long moment, she remained there, silently drinking in the comfort of his wiry strength, his familiar scent of soap and leather and pipe tobacco. Oh, she was so glad she had come. She hadn’t felt this safe in a long, long time.

He accepted her embrace with uncharacteristic patience and warmth, as if perhaps he, too, had found the years apart too long and lonely. But just when she began to fear she might dissolve into overemotional tears, he patted her back briskly and chuckled in her ear.

“If you don’t let go soon, Sarah, my love, you’ll ruin my reputation as a prickly old bastard. And then I’ll have to beat the Alexander sisters off with a stick.”

Sarah grinned and pulled away, finally remembering her manners. Turning, she faced the others. “I’m sorry,” she said, smiling. “Hello.”

Madeline took over. “Oh, my dear, you mustn’t apologize. Of course you want to say hello to your uncle, after all these years. It’s just the sweetest thing. Well, now, I’d like you to meet my sisters. Flora and Arlene, Flora’s the eldest. I’m the youngest, of course—” this with a flirtatious double blink in Ward’s direction. “I know they’ll be happy to pour a cup of tea for you. You do like tea, don’t you? It’s just the thing on such a nasty day.”

The two women over by the stained-glass window immediately began clinking cups and saucers and pouring steaming, aromatic liquid. The sisters were every bit as lovely as Madeline, though they couldn’t match her rippling stream of charming chatter. They didn’t, in fact, seem to try. They merely beamed at Sarah and nodded their heads in agreement that, yes, it was delightful finally to meet her.

“And the guy with the badge over there,” Sarah’s uncle said from behind her, “is Sheriff Parker Tremaine. Tremaine, this is my niece. Keep away from her. I haven’t had a long visit with her in fifteen years, and I don’t plan to share her visit with anybody.”

“Hello, Sarah.” Parker, who had stood at Sarah’s arrival, smiled that cockeyed smile she remembered all too well. “I was hoping I’d get a chance to say thank you in person. Your niece and I have already met, Ward,” he added blandly. “She saved my life about an hour ago.”

“She did what? How?” Ward looked irritated. “No, don’t even tell me. Sarah, I’m going to have to ask you not to fall in love with Tremaine here. It would be just too boring. Every other female in the Glen already has beaten you to it. Hypnotized by the badge, I guess. You know women. Anything that sparkles.”

Madeline made a small, offended noise. “Not every woman, Ward,” she sniffed, but the old man just rolled his eyes and ignored her.

“Besides,” Ward went on, obviously enjoying himself, “he’s kind of a half-ass sheriff, and lately he’s been annoying the hell out of me. But he’s a passable chess player, so I haven’t thrown him out. Yet.”

“Actually, I think you should hear this story.” Parker Tremaine was clearly undaunted, as amused by the bickering as her uncle was. He tossed a wink at Sarah. “It’s a good story, Ward. You’ll love it—it’s all about you. See, your niece rescued me from a lynch mob. That’s right, a lynch mob, ready to string me up in the town square. And you know why? Because I haven’t slapped you in jail yet.”

“Ha! Put me in jail?” Ward raised his shaggy black eyebrows. “You and whose army?”

“The Chamber of Commerce army, Ward. Every one of the Firefly Glen innkeepers, shop owners, ski renters and hot chocolate vendors who had planned to get rich from the ice festival. They think you’re trying to destroy them financially, and they don’t plan to lie down and let you do it. I’m pretty sure the words ‘libel’ and ‘punitive damages’ were mentioned.”

So that was what it had all been about, all those tense faces and strained voices at the clothing store. Sarah looked over at her uncle, perplexed. She wondered what he’d done.

“Oh, what a bunch of babies,” Ward said, waving his hand in a symbolic dismissal of the entire argument. “It was just a couple of little letters to the editor. Just one man’s opinion. This is America, isn’t it—even this far north? Since when did it become libel to express your opinion?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s always been libelous to imply that there’s something dangerously wrong with the Glen’s tap water.”

To Sarah’s surprise, her uncle looked sheepish, an expression she didn’t remember ever seeing on his rugged face before. “Well, mine tastes funny, Tremaine, and that’s a fact. Try it. Tastes like hell.”

“It’s always tasted like hell. It’s the minerals. You know that. And honestly, Ward. Ten newspapers? Including the New York Times?”

“Well, I didn’t think they’d run it,” Sarah’s uncle said, his voice a low grumble.

“Tea, Ward?” Madeline chirped merrily. Ward glared at her, but she kept bustling around, gathering up his cup and saucer, tsking and fluffing his napkin. Sarah couldn’t tell what had set the older woman into such a dither. Was it because the topic of the ice festival upset her, or was she just tired of being left out of the conversation?

“Flora, do pour Ward a fresh cup. His is cold. Do you think it might be a little chilly in here? I do.” She shivered prettily. “I think we might have let the fire burn down too far. I’ll fix it. I just love a good strong fire, don’t you?”

Brass poker in one hand, Madeline opened the heavy metal screen that covered the flaming logs and began stirring carelessly. The fire surged in a whoosh of sound, one of the bottom logs collapsed, and embers flew out like red and orange fireworks.

Just as Madeline turned away, one of the embers settled on the bright yellow tulips of her flowing skirt. Sarah noticed it and felt a faint stirring of alarm, but before she could say a word, the frothy fabric began to blacken and curl. A lick of flame started traveling with hideous speed up the back of Madeline’s dress.

“Oh!” Madeline was turning around, trying to see what was happening. She was clearly too rattled to do anything sensible. With a whimper of fear, one of her sisters tossed a cup of tea over the flame, but it was half empty, and managed to extinguish only one sizzling inch of fabric. The rest still burned.

Sarah began to run. Ward began to run. But miraculously Parker was already there, gathering up the skirt in his hands and smothering the flames.

It was out in an instant. Just as quickly as it had begun, the crisis was over. Half-crying with nervous relief, Madeline collapsed helplessly into Ward’s waiting arms. She murmured weak thanks to Parker, but she didn’t lift her face from Ward’s shoulder and so the words were muffled and, it seemed to Sarah, just slightly grudging.

It was as if Madeline resented the fact that Parker, not Ward Winters, had stepped forward to be her hero.

But Parker didn’t seem to care. He accepted Madeline’s thanks, and that of her sisters, with a comfortable lack of fuss, as if he did such things every day. Marveling at his indifference to his own courage, Sarah stared at the sheriff. He was still down on one knee, his hand resting on a lean, muscular length of thigh, graceful even at such a moment. His careless waves of black hair fell over his broad forehead as he checked the carpet for any live embers.

Sarah swallowed against a dry throat. Madeline might prefer her heroes to be silver haired, craggy faced and over seventy. But if Sarah had been in the market for a hero, which she wasn’t, Parker Tremaine would have been just what the fairy tale ordered.

A minute ago, he had joked about how she had saved his life. But he had really saved Madeline just now. With his hands. His bare hands—

She looked at those hands. Blisters had begun to form on the palms. Everyone was clustered around Madeline, oohhing and aahing over her near escape. Why wasn’t anyone worrying about Parker?

She touched his shoulder softly.

“Sheriff,” she said, trying to force out of her stupid mind any thoughts of fairy tales, to think only of ointment and bandages, aspirin and common sense. “Come with me, and I’ll find something to put on your hands.”

LUCKILY, PARKER KNEW where the first-aid supplies were kept at Winter House. Madeline, who was glued to Ward’s shoulder, was making a hell of a racket. Sarah Lennox, inquiring politely where the bandages were stored, was no match for her.

Parker knew he didn’t really need a bandage. The damage to his hands was minimal—just one small blister on each palm. He got more torn up chopping wood every week or two. But Sarah looked so sweetly concerned he just couldn’t resist. And besides, it would give him a couple of minutes alone with her, something he’d been hoping for ever since he first glimpsed her on the mountain this morning.

He had fully expected to meet her again sooner or later. Firefly Glen was too small for any two people to avoid each other for long, even if they were trying. But what a piece of luck that she should be related to his good friend Ward.

“The supplies are upstairs,” he said, cocking his head toward the doorway, inviting her to follow him. “I’ll show you.”

Back before indoor plumbing, the bathroom had been a small bay-windowed bedroom adjacent to Ward’s own suite. When the mansion had been updated to include all the modern amenities, this room and several others had morphed into bathrooms and walk-in closets.

As a result, it looked like the bath in some fantastic monastery. It was painted Madonna blue, with a ribbed, domed ceiling forming a Gothic arch over the claw-footed bathtub. The bay windows were blue and gold stained glass.

Sarah smiled as Parker opened the door. “I’d forgotten how amazing this house is,” she said. “When I was here as a kid, I was a little afraid of it. I was always getting lost.”

“I’ll bet. I still do. I’m convinced the place was designed by a lunatic.” Parker unlatched the medicine chest with the tips of his fingers, revealing a well-stocked supply of ointments and bandages. He held out his hands and smiled. “Okay, then. Be gentle.”

Sarah smiled back and, as she leaned forward to assess the damage, he could just barely smell her perfume. Nice stuff. Sweet and modest, but with a hidden kick to it. A lot like the impression he got of Sarah herself.

Not that he’d know anything about that. Not really.

Not yet.

“Oh, dear,” she said, running the tips of her fingers across the pads of his palm, tracing the outline of the biggest blister. “Does it hurt a lot?”

He couldn’t decide whether she’d be more impressed if he suffered agonizing pain stoically, or if he professed himself too tough to feel pain at all. So he settled for the truth. “It’s pretty minor. Stings a little. I used her skirt to do most of the work. The worst of the fire never got to my hands.”

Guiding his hand toward the basin, Sarah turned on the water and let its soft, cool trickle run over his palm. The pain stopped immediately, and he had to admit it was something of a relief. She kept his hand there, cupped within hers almost absently, while she scanned the labels of the available ointments.

“She was lucky you were nearby.” Sarah frowned at the cabinet, as if she didn’t see what she wanted. “At least you knew what to do and weren’t afraid to do it. I think the rest of us were paralyzed with shock.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Ward was only a step or two behind. And I’m not at all sure Madeline wouldn’t rather have waited for him.”

She glanced up, and their eyes met in the mirror. She had great eyes—hazel, with deep flecks of green. And they seemed to have so many moods. On the mountain, he would have called them sad. Vulnerable. But then, in the shop, he’d been struck with how perceptive they looked. Now they were uptilted, dancing with amusement in a way he found absolutely adorable.

“I noticed that, too,” she said with a small laugh. “Incredible. Madeline’s clothes are on fire, and she’s thinking about romance?”

“She’s in love.” Parker allowed Sarah to place his other hand under the spigot. “You know how that is, I’m sure.”

Until he saw the guarded expression fall over Sarah’s face, he hadn’t even realized what he was asking. But she knew. She had instinctively sensed the question behind the question.

Are you already spoken for? Should I back off—or is it okay to take another step forward?

Well, heck, of course she knew. She was beautiful, smart, sexy, interesting. She probably saw that question in men’s eyes every day. And, judging from the way the amusement had flicked off behind her eyes, she didn’t much like it.

But because he was a fool, and because he suddenly itched to know, he pressed. “Come on. Admit it. Hasn’t love ever made you do anything really, really stupid?”

“Of course,” she said tightly, turning off the water and reaching for the nearest hand towel. She took a deep breath, and finally she smiled again. “But I think I can safely say, Sheriff, that if there’s a man in this world worth setting myself on fire for, I haven’t met him yet.”

Parker laughed. “Good,” he said. He was absurdly satisfied by her answer. What was going on here? Was he flirting with Ward’s niece? That would be dumb.

But he hadn’t been this fascinated by a woman since the day he met Tina.

Well, everyone knew where that had landed him. In six years of hell, and then in one ugly, pocket-draining day of divorce court. You’d think he would have learned his lesson.

Still…Sarah Lennox was inexplicably intriguing. Maybe it was that hint of her uncle’s determination in her jaw, so at odds with her fragile femininity.

Or more likely it was just his own hormones growing restless. He had actually enjoyed his year of celibacy. It had been a relief after Tina, a time of emotional and physical R and R.

But maybe, just maybe, a year was long enough.

Wow. He pulled himself up with an embarrassed yank. That was damn cocky. And way off base. Sarah Lennox didn’t look at all like the kind of woman who would find it fun to share the sheets with some relative stranger during her winter vacation. Even more to the point, while she was friendly and polite, she hadn’t shown signs of being one bit overwhelmed by his manly dimples.

Not to mention how Ward would react if Parker started exercising his hormones again with the old man’s favorite great-niece. Ward might be in his late seventies, but he was still plenty tough enough to scatter pieces of Parker’s body all over a tri-county area.

Parker returned reluctantly to reality. While he and his ego had been taking that stupid mental flight, Sarah had already smoothed on the ointment. Now she was ready for the bandage. She gingerly placed a snow-white square of sterile gauze against the first blister, then started winding a strip of bandage around his hand to keep it in place. She seemed completely focused on her task, eyes down, lower lip clasped between her teeth intently.

Parker felt a little silly. It was just a blister, for Pete’s sake. And he was damned glad that Emma couldn’t see him. He probably looked like an over-eager lapdog, holding out his blistered paws so Sarah could make them better.

But he had to admit it was kind of sweet.

“Tell me,” she said as she tied off the bandage. “What’s really going on with my uncle and the ice festival?”

She let go of his hand and began on the other one. Parker flexed his fingers for a moment, testing the bandage, before he answered. He didn’t want to upset her. But maybe she could help him make Ward see reason.

“He’s putting up some serious opposition this year. Some of the merchants in town think he’s damaging them financially. They’re pretty steamed up over it.”

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