Firefly Glen: Winter Baby (Harlequin Signature Select) (15 page)

She was in the library. But why, and why was it so chilly? She burrowed deeper into the warm comfort of satin wrapped tightly around her body. It was warm in here, but out there, beyond the satin, it was not. Her cheeks and ears were tight with cold.

She opened her eyes, peeking at the fire between her lashes, wondering if the heater was broken.

And then she remembered. Her uncle. The smashed window. Parker.

She sat up, holding the comforter around her shoulders. The fire provided the only light in the room, but it was enough. She found Parker easily. He was dozing on the Queen Anne armchair, his feet stretched out, long and graceful and utterly still, toward the fire.

She rubbed her eyes hard, wondering how long she had been asleep. Had she missed her turn to check on Ward? Carefully, so that she wouldn't disturb Parker, she eased out of the tangled comforter and stood, hoping her socks would muffle her footsteps. He must need sleep desperately. She certainly had.

But Parker wasn't sleeping. As soon as she moved toward the door, he opened his eyes. “It's all right,” he said quietly. “I checked on him an hour ago.”

She stopped beside him. “Is he okay? Did you wake him? The doctor said we have to make sure he's coherent, and that his eyes are focusing correctly.”

Parker raised his eyebrows without lifting his head.
“Oh, I woke him, all right. The first two times he was almost civil. This last time, he suggested—perfectly coherently—that I should pay a visit to the devil.”

He shut his eyes again. “By the way, he said if we wake him one more time tonight, he's going to shoot us.”

Sarah chuckled. “He probably won't, though.”

“No,” Parker agreed, smiling. “Probably not.”

Sarah checked her watch, squinting at it in the volatile orange firelight. To her surprise it was almost five in the morning. It would be dawn soon.

“I must have missed my turn more than once,” she said guiltily. “I'm sorry about that.”

“I'm not.” Parker opened his eyes and looked at her appraisingly. “You look much better now. You needed the sleep.”

That probably was true. The drama of the evening had been exhausting, and Heather had warned her that the baby might sap her strength a little, leaving her more easily tired than usual.

She put her hand to her stomach instinctively.

But Parker was watching her, his eyes unreadable in the strange, shifting light from the fire. Suddenly self-conscious, Sarah tugged her shirt a little farther down over her jeans, as if it might be possible for someone else to recognize the slight swell of her waistline.

It wasn't possible, of course. Not yet. She couldn't even see it herself, not by looking in the mirror. It
was only when she ran her hand over her stomach that she sensed something different. Something new.

Still she felt vulnerable. She crossed her arms against the sudden cold that slipped through Parker's cardboard shield.

“It will be light soon,” she said. “No one is going to come back and cause trouble now. Why don't you go on home and get some real sleep?”

The fidgety restlessness that had come over her didn't seem to have affected him at all. He sat in complete repose. He hadn't taken his eyes away from her.

“Is that what you want?” He spoke without pressure, as if whatever she answered would be all right. “Do you want me to leave?”

It seemed ungrateful to say yes, after all he had done for her. How could she explain that his presence here, in the notoriously weak willed hours before dawn, felt somehow dangerous?

“It's just that I want you to get some sleep,” she equivocated. “And trying to sleep here doesn't seem very…”

“I won't be able to sleep at home, either,” he said gently. “Either place, I'm just going to lie awake. I'm just going to lie there thinking how much I want to make love to you.”

She turned her head away. “Parker. Don't.”

“Why not?” He reached his hand out and captured hers. Gently he tugged her toward the armchair, until her thighs were pressed against the upholstered arm.

She tried to pull away, but he held her easily.
Slowly he fingered the palm of her hand in a subtle massage. He tilted his head, as if reading her response to the touch.

“Why are you fighting this so hard, Sarah? You know you feel it, too. Would it be so awful if we just let it happen?”

She breathed hard, concentrating on ignoring his clever fingers. “I told you. I can't get involved right now. Just a month ago I—”

“I know. You were engaged to another man. You might be on the rebound. The timing is terrible. Okay, let's say all that is true. What should you do, lock yourself in a deep freeze until the appropriate amount of time has passed? What is the acceptable mourning period for a bad engagement, anyhow? Two months? Six months? A year?”

He shook his head. “I can't wait a year, Sarah. I won't.”

“It's not just the engagement,” she said, knowing that he wasn't going to give up this time, not until he pushed her all the way, right to the final, fatal admission. “It's much, much more complicated than that.”

“What?” Narrowing his eyes, he sat up a little straighter. “You're not still in love with—what was his name, anyhow? You never told me his name.”

“Ed.” She half swallowed the syllable. “His name is Ed McCutcheon.”

“Ed.” He repeated the word with clipped distaste. “Okay. You're not still in love with Ed, are you? You can't be. The way you kissed me…”

“No.” She looked down at their hands. She was
holding on so tightly, as if he were the only thing that kept her grounded. She realized how easy it would be to come to count on that hand. To believe it really could save her from danger. It couldn't, of course. Because
he
was the danger.

“No,” she repeated numbly. “I'm not in love with Ed anymore. I'm not sure I ever was. Not really.”

He took a deep breath. “Okay. Good. Then whatever it is, we can get through it.” He leaned toward her, running his other hand along her arm, up to the elbow. The touch sent shivers through her from shoulder to toe.

“We can make this work, Sarah. I know we can. You just have to give it a chance.”

“You don't understand. That's still not all.” She continued to stare at their hands, at his strong fingers wrapped around her fragile wrist. “I never loved Ed. But I
made love
to him, Parker.”

He made a low, furious sound. “Do you think I give a damn about that?”

“Yes. I think you will. Because I may not love Ed McCutcheon, but I am going to have his child.”

She finally looked up at him, at his blank and staring eyes. “It's true, Parker,” she said softly. “I'm pregnant.”

S
ARAH HAD NEVER SEEN
a living hand so still. Not even her uncle's hand earlier tonight, when he had lain unconscious and bleeding on the floor. Parker's hand was more like that of a painted statue. Even the fitful firelight couldn't give it the illusion of life.

She pulled her own hand free of the frozen fingers and turned away. She wasn't disappointed, not really. Because she had always known it would be like this. She had always known that Parker's interest in her couldn't survive the truth. She hadn't ever allowed herself to hope.

Not really.

“So now you see why I've been trying to avoid any new complications.” Rather than look at his stunned, expressionless face, she busied herself folding up the satin comforter that had cocooned her just moments ago.

She plumped and settled the pillows, until no one could have guessed she had ever been there. “Obviously I can't even think about starting a new relationship right now. I have to concentrate on the baby, on getting my life back in order.”

And, as she said the words, she realized that they were absolutely true. She needed a new plan. A new,
detailed life plan, to replace the one that had been tossed in the trash can, along with all the little pink
x
's.

Yes, a new plan right away: that was the answer. Without a plan, she had been like a ship without a rudder, and any wind had been able to blow her off course. This one had blown her into Parker Tremaine's path, and straight toward a collision of the heart.

“But why didn't you tell me about this sooner?” Parker's voice was strangely rough. “God, Sarah. Why didn't you tell me right away?”

Was he angry? Surely he wouldn't dare. What right did he have to be angry? It was he who had pushed this relationship. She had always hung back, insisting that it must not, could not, be.

She turned and looked at him. “Because I wasn't ready to talk about it to anyone,” she said stiffly. “Because it wasn't any of your business.”

He frowned hard, a straight line driving like a gash between his brows. “It wasn't,” he repeated slowly, “any of my business?”

She stood very straight. “No. It wasn't.”

They stared at each other across the cold room, the silence somehow just as unpleasant as a quarrel would have been. Perversely, part of her wanted to quarrel. At least then she could release some of this emotion pressing against her chest. It was such an unbearable weight, as if the burden of losing him were something physical she would now have to carry from place to place, like a rock.

But that was ridiculous.
Losing
him? How could you lose something you never had?

“I'm going to check on my uncle now,” she said, picking up her bloodstained sweater. She didn't even remember taking it off. “I do thank you for all your help tonight, Parker. You know the way out, so—”

Suddenly there was a rapping on the front door. Sarah's breath stalled, and she realized that she must be even more unnerved by the night's events than she had understood.

And why shouldn't she be? Her uncle had enemies out there, hiding in the freezing black shadows.

All at once, she was intensely aware of how odd this mansion was, how isolated and deep an Adirondack winter could be. And she realized that, if Parker hadn't been in the room with her, she might have felt true fear.

Ashamed of what seemed a foolish weakness, she tried to mask her thoughts. She didn't want him to think her a coward. She
wasn't
a coward.

She lifted her chin and made a motion toward the hall. But Parker was already standing.

“I'll answer it,” he said firmly. “You stay here in the library.”

She obeyed, but she followed him as far as the doorway. She needed to see who it was.

It was Parker's deputy sheriff, Harry Dunbar. And he was holding someone else by the scruff of the neck. A teenage boy, it seemed. Sarah edged forward. Yes, a nice-looking teenage kid. Dressed all in black, but red faced and miserable.

“Here's your criminal,” Harry Dunbar was saying. He sounded disgusted. “Although why I should have to drag my ass out of bed in the middle of the night to track down a stupid punk like this…”

Parker was shaking his head. “Mike? I can't believe it. Of all the people I expected to see—”

“God, Sheriff. I'm sorry.” The kid's voice was terrified. He ran his hands through his dark hair over and over, as if he wanted to pull it straight out of his head. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt anybody, honest I didn't. I did it for Justine. For her father. I was just supposed to send the message—”

“Shut up, Frome.” Parker sounded as tough as nails, completely unmoved by the misery before him. “I don't want to hear any excuses out of you. There is no excuse. Blaming other people isn't going to help. You're in more trouble than you have ever seen in your whole sorry life, buster.”

“What do you want me to do with him?” Harry still had hold of Mike Frome's jacket collar, which forced the kid to bend over at a strange, tangled-puppet angle.

“I'll take him,” Parker said tersely.

He looked back at Sarah, who was still standing in the doorway, wondering how on earth this apparently nice, normal teenage boy could have done so much damage here tonight, and why?

“I have to go back to the department,” Parker said. “We'll have to sort this out—talk to Mike's parents, for starters.” The kid groaned, but Parker didn't so
much as blink in reaction. “It'll take a while. Will you be all right?”

She nodded. “We're fine,” she said carefully.

He paused, and she could tell that he wanted to say more but was constrained by the presence of Harry and the boy Mike.

“I'll call you later,” Parker said finally. “About how Ward is doing. And about—that other matter.”

That other matter.
She shook her head. “No, that's not necessary. You'll be busy. And I think we've really discussed it pretty thoroughly.”

“No, we haven't,” Parker said grimly as he grabbed the boy's arm and steered him toward the waiting car. “Not even close.”

 

H
E DIDN'T CALL THAT DAY
, or the next.

At least not to talk to her. He talked to Ward several times, updating him on the investigation into poor, red-faced Mike Frome. But he never asked to speak to Sarah, and of course she wouldn't have dreamed of asking to speak to him.

What would have been the point?

Mostly, Sarah tried not to think about it. And for the most part she was successful. She was busy, and that helped. The news about her uncle had gone out with the speed of a microchip, and as soon as the sun was fully up, Madeline Alexander had come bustling into the Winter House, eager to play Florence Nightingale. Ward was a terrible patient, crotchety and demanding. It took both of them to keep him placated and in bed.

And then there was the matter of replacing the broken window, which required hiring glaziers to put in a temporary glass, and a dozen calls to artisans around the country, requesting bids for a new design. The estimated price was in the thousands, and in spite of herself Sarah felt sorry for the teenager who had made such a costly mistake.

On the third day, she found a flyer shoved through the Winter House mail slot, alerting everyone to an emergency session of the Firefly Glen City Council, that night at seven o'clock. Final Festival Vote: Cancel or Continue? it read. No further details were provided.

Sarah didn't show it to her uncle until almost seven o'clock, fearing that he would insist on attending. The doctor had told him to keep calm and close to home for at least a week. But to her surprise, Ward merely snorted when he read the flyer, crumpled it into a ball and lobbed it into the nearest trash can.

“Let them meet until they're blue in the face,” he said, turning his attention back to the chessboard, which Sarah had transplanted to Ward's bedroom. “Those morons at City Hall can't regulate Ward Winters into submission.”

He looked up and grinned as he captured one of Sarah's pawns. Frosty, who sat next to him on the bed, grinned, too, his tongue hanging out cheerfully.

“I am far too clever and devious for them.” Ward puffed out his chest and leaned back against his pillows. “I am an outlaw now, my child. I live by a different code. Like Zorro.”

Sarah responded by taking her uncle's bishop. “And what code would that be? Do we find it in the
Mischief Maker's Manual? The Gray Panther Guerilla Guidebook?
”

He frowned, then leaned forward to study the board grumpily. “We don't find it in
Make Anyone Do Anything—A Primer of Persuasion,
that's for sure.”

Sarah looked up, startled.

“Didn't know I knew about that, did you?” Ward looked extremely self-satisfied. His bandage, which angled over his right eye from his hairline to his temple, merely intensified his rogue charm. “I guess you and your beloved sheriff aren't quite as clever as you think, isn't that right, Short Stuff?”

Sarah almost fell for it. She almost jumped in with a denial.
He's not my beloved sheriff.
But she caught herself in the nick of time. Ward was just fishing for an excuse to open that topic again. She wasn't going to give it to him.

“That's right,” she agreed evenly, moving her queen two spaces to the right. “But you may not be, either. I think that's check, Mr. Zorro, sir.”

Ward didn't like to lose, so after that he concentrated harder on the game. He had finally escaped her clutches, regrouped and managed to turn the tables when Madeline, who had been downstairs puttering around in the kitchen, suddenly showed up in the doorway.

“Parker is here to see you, Ward,” she said. Though she was dressed as cheerfully as ever in a pattern of fluffy pink peonies, she looked nervous.
She twisted a blue dish towel tightly between her hands. “He says he has news from the meeting. Shall I show him up?”

Sarah glanced at her uncle. He appeared completely serene, pulling slowly and rhythmically on Frosty's ears, sending the puppy into a trance of joy.

He moved his knight. “Sure. We're through here.” He gave Sarah a smug smile. “Checkmate.”

When Sarah made a motion to stand, Ward stopped her. “I might need you,” he said with a plaintive tone that Sarah recognized as one hundred percent fraudulent. He touched his bandage pitifully. “In case I feel faint.”

Sarah gave him a dirty look, but she sat back down. She could hear Parker's footsteps in the hall. It was already too late to escape.

Ward apparently needed only one glimpse of Parker's face to guess the outcome of the meeting.

“They're going ahead with it, aren't they?” With a low curse, he collapsed back against the carved headboard of his bed. The drapes of the canopy cast his face in shadows, but the annoyance in his voice was crystal clear.

Parker nodded. He seemed unfazed by such an unconventional greeting. “Hi, Sarah,” he said politely. Then he turned toward the older man. “Of course they are, Ward. The vote was unanimous.”

“Those greedy morons.” Ward growled. Frosty looked up at him quizzically, thumping his tail. “I can't believe it.”

“Why not?” Without waiting for an invitation,
Parker sat on one of the armchairs near the fireplace. “You didn't think a few pranks could destroy a tradition that's almost a hundred years old, did you? They held the festival the year spring came early, melting the ice castle faster than they could build it. They held it right after the blizzard of '33 killed more than thirty Glenners. They held it during the Depression. They held it during the war.” He smiled gently. “Did you really think you could stop it?”

Ward was silent a moment, his fingers fidgeting irritably with the fine Egyptian cotton bedclothes. “Where are they going to put the castle?”

“In the square. It will have to be smaller, of course. Medford is going to draw up new plans tonight.”

“The decorated sleigh parade?”

“Those who have privately owned sleighs will use those. The rest will make do. Cars, sleds, trucks. Whatever.”

“What about Bourke Waitely?”

Parker hesitated for the first time. “Reservations at the hotel are down by fifty percent. Not much the city council could do about that. Looks as if he's going to lose a lot of money.”

Ward laughed. “Well. At least there's that.”

“Yep. There's that. You annoyed the heck out of Bourke, Ward. Congratulations. And it only cost you…what? Ten grand and a busted head?”

“It was worth it,” Ward said acidly. “Meddling old bastard.”

Sighing, as if he gave up on the whole thing, Parker
stood. “I need to get going. Sarah, any chance I could talk to you for a minute?”

She looked at her uncle, who didn't seem as distressed as she had expected by Parker's news. Had he known all along that the festival would survive his attacks? Or did he have something else up his sleeve?

“Didn't you hear the sheriff, Sarah?” Amazingly, Ward's voice was as mischievous as ever. “He wants to talk to you.”

“I'd better not leave you,” she said sweetly. She touched her forehead. “You know. In case you feel faint.”

“I'm much better now,” Ward said irritably, pulling Frosty closer and stroking him, as if to say that at least
someone
in the room was sweet and agreeable. “Parker, take Sarah away. Clumsy, ungrateful sarcasm makes my stitches hurt.”

 

P
ARKER LET
S
ARAH LEAD
the way. On the surface, she appeared completely composed. She walked smoothly down the wide staircase in front of him, her slim hand pale but steady on the banister. Her hair was tied back neatly with a green ribbon that matched perfectly the green wool dress she wore.

But he knew she was edgy. He could see it in the tight set of her jaw.