Spellbound Falls (5 page)

She never should have let Eileen talk her into breaking her rule of no private parenting sessions. She should have at least recognized what she was getting herself into when Mac had summarily dismissed her repeatedly gentle but firm refusals to let him come to Inglenook three weeks early—much the same way Mark had dismissed them this afternoon. Only whereas Mark had attacked her, Mac had gotten his way using good old-fashioned bribery. Did
anyone
listen to her? Honest to God, she needed to throw
gentle
out the window and put a lot more emphasis on
firm
—preferably while she was holding a baseball bat.

Which meant she should probably start working out and take up running again, considering how easily Mark had overpowered her, and sign up for one of Inglenook’s meditation classes, considering her emotional breakdown afterward. She was still shaking uncontrollably and fighting back tears, which was why she’d jumped out of the truck the moment they reached the turnoff, before she humiliated herself again.

Only Henry had shot out of the truck right behind her. At first it was obvious he’d felt duty bound to continue comforting her, but once Olivia had assured him she was feeling much better, the boy had taken off to explore the nearby woods instead.

That is, after he’d dutifully run back and asked his father’s permission.

Mac had also gotten out of the truck but had merely leaned against the front fender, his feet crossed at the ankles and his arms folded on his chest, apparently content to let his son deal with the welling tears he’d seen in her eyes. She was still wearing his leather jacket, and should probably give it back since he was standing in the cool March breeze in only his shirt, but the warm security of its weight surrounding her simply felt too wonderful to relinquish.

She buried her hands in its roomy pockets with a heavy sigh. Now what was she supposed to do? Without Mark, there was no way she could get Inglenook fully functional in three weeks. And even though her father-in-law would insist on helping, Olivia would have to insist—likely while holding that baseball bat—that she wasn’t letting John put his recently replaced knee at risk. Her mother-in-law wouldn’t be much help, either, as Eileen already had a full plate, what with trying to finish her dissertation while developing several new programs for this summer’s sessions, finding and then training a couple of interns to implement those programs, and working with their cook on a new all-organic menu for this year.

Dammit, what in hell did she know about plumbing in a water heater?

Assuming the heater wasn’t sitting in the ditch between here and home, or still in the back of Mark’s truck on its way out of town before sunset. Olivia slowly started walking back toward the main road but picked up her pace when she realized she couldn’t see Henry anywhere. “Henry?” she called out, scanning the woods on both sides of the road. “Henry, where did you go?”

“He’s fine, Olivia,” Mac said, straightening away from the fender. “He climbed down to the brook and is throwing rocks.”

“There are some deep pools in that brook,” she said, trying to pierce the dense woods. “And there’s still snow in places. He could slip and fall in, or wander off and get lost. Little boys have a tendency to follow anything that catches their interest without realizing how far they’re going.”

“He may get wet, but he won’t drown,” Mac said. He pointed downstream of the bridge that sat a hundred yards up from the entrance of the turnoff. “And I will call him back if he wanders too far. Is it not my son’s job to explore the world around him, and my job merely to keep him safe while he does?” He frowned. “At least that’s what I’ve surmised from the books I’ve been reading.”

Olivia couldn’t help but smile. “You’ve been reading books on parenting?”

Instead of returning her smile, his frown deepened. “At least a dozen—only I’ve discovered a good many of them contradict each other, and one or two had some rather disturbing notions about discipline.”

“Parenting is more of a hands-on, trial-by-fire sort of thing, Mr. Oceanus. And though several people have tried, no one’s been able to write a definitive book on child rearing because humans are not one size fits all.”

Good Lord; there she went sounding like Eileen again.

He finally found a smile. “So I have your permission to ignore everything those books said, Mrs. Baldwin?”

Oh yeah, his eyes definitely turned a deep vivid green when he was amused. “Actually, you have my permission to throw them away. And please, call me Olivia.”

Up went one of his brows. “Forgive me; you led me to believe we were no longer on a first-name basis.”

“My mistake… Mac.” She arched a brow right back at him. “Do you know where your son is right now?”

“Just downstream, crossing the brook on a fallen log.”

Olivia turned, trying to locate Henry. “Where? I don’t see him.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I have very good eyesight as well as exceptional hearing. He’s just reached the end of his courage and is heading back toward us.”

“Speaking of good hearing, apparently your son has inherited yours. You’re going to have to watch what you say around him, Mac. He kept calling Mark a bastard.”

“Is that not the appropriate term?”

“Not for a six-year-old boy, it’s not.” When she saw the sparkle leave his eyes, Olivia wondered if she’d ever learn to read this man. “I don’t think you understand what Henry’s doing. When Trace first called me, he said that in the course of only a few months your son’s mother died and he came to live with you, even though the two of you had never met. Is that correct?”

Mac silently nodded.

“Well, coming to live with a complete stranger after suffering such a loss has been far more traumatic for Henry than for you,” she said softly. “And from what I’ve seen in the last half hour, your son is trying very hard to be what he thinks you want him to be. Henry’s like a sponge soaking you up: emulating your mannerisms, your language, and how you treat people.” She smiled, gesturing at the road she’d been pacing. “Heck, he even walks like you.”

“Excuse me?”

Still unable to read his expression, Olivia widened her smile. “You have a rather direct stride, Mac. You want to see what it looks like sometime, just watch Henry.”

“Are you saying I should discourage him from emulating me?”

“No. That’s a good thing. It means Henry is looking to you as a role model.” She shoved her hands in the jacket pockets again. “You really should be talking to my mother-in-law about this; Eileen’s the expert. I’m just trying to point out that when you call someone a bastard, even if he is one, Henry’s going to call him one, too. And if you beat up that bastard, even if he deserves it, Henry’s going to beat up any kid his young mind believes might deserve it. So I’m only suggesting that you be aware of what you say and do in front of him. All children are highly impressionable, but Henry’s even more so, because not only is he trying to figure out exactly where he fits in your life, he’s desperately trying to find his place in your heart.”

Mac unfolded his arms to shove his hands into his pants pockets and turned to face the woods. “I have no business being anyone’s role model, especially not an impressionable young child’s.” He glanced over his shoulder at her, then back toward the brook. “I am the worst son a man could have, and there’s a very good chance I will be an even worse father.”

“You already are a wonderful father, Mac.”

“How can you possibly say that?” he asked without looking at her. “You know nothing about me.”

“I know how completely focused you are on Henry. And your insisting on coming to Inglenook early and then staying through the entire summer certainly proves how determined you are.” She started walking toward the main road when she heard the school bus approaching, but stopped and turned with a smile. “Parenting’s not about you versus Henry, Mac; it’s about you and Henry versus the world.”

For the first time in nearly three months—since a mysterious, overly intelligent, pint-sized person had come to live with him—Mac felt a glimmer of hope that he might actually survive this. He hadn’t even made it to Inglenook yet and already he was seeing his son in a whole new light, the most surprising revelation being that Henry was soaking up everything he said and did like a sponge. Which, now that he thought about it, was frighteningly true; within days of their tumultuous meeting, Henry had started mimicking him to the point that Mac realized he could be looking in a thirty-year-old mirror from when
he
was six. But maybe the most insightful—and reassuring—thing Olivia had said was that he and Henry were on this journey together.

And that simple notion intrigued him as much as the woman who’d said it did.

Which could be a problem. He was here to learn how to become a good father, and he really didn’t need the distraction of finding himself attracted to the teacher, no matter how beautiful she might be, or how warm and inviting her smile was, or how compassionate she was to a fault. Damnation, he’d didn’t know which had angered him more: that she would have been raped if he hadn’t happened along, or that she had in turn protected the bastard.

“It’s a good thing we were driving by when the lady was being attacked, wasn’t it, Father?” Henry said. “It’s too bad she wouldn’t allow you to kill the bastard, though, because I think he deserved it. Your letting him go might lead him to believe he can attack another woman and get away with it again.”

Mac looked down to find his son standing beside him, the child’s arms crossed over his chest and his feet planted to relax back on his hips as he watched Olivia walk across the main road in front of the stopped school bus. Sweet Prometheus, how could the boy possibly know his very thoughts?

Mac unfolded his arms and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Apparently
bastard
is an inappropriate term for a six-year-old to use, son. So maybe you should cease saying it until you’re older.”

“How much older?” Henry asked, also shoving his hands into his trouser pockets as he frowned up at Mac. “Can I say it when I’m ten? Or fifteen? Or do I have to wait until I’m your age?”

The boy always took everything so literally! And if Henry asked one question he asked a hundred; every day, morning until night, one right after another. The problem was, Mac didn’t have a clue how to answer him half the time. How in hell was he supposed to know how old a person should be to use certain words? As far as he was concerned, if the term fit it was permissible at any age.

“Maybe that’s a question you should ask Olivia.”

“And do I call her
Olivia
when I ask, or
madam
?”

Mac dropped his head in defeat. “You might wish to ask her that, too. And Henry, don’t mention to her daughter what happened today,” he said when he saw Olivia walking back across the road holding the hand of a girl who appeared to be a year or two older than Henry. “Olivia might not want her to know for fear of worrying her. Now go put your things behind your seat to make a place for her to sit,” he instructed, looking toward the main road as Henry ran to the truck.

The two women could have been twins but for their ages, the younger Baldwin having wavy brown hair that fell over her shoulders to frame an angelic face, an effortless smile, and an energized beauty that seemed to swirl around her like liquid sunshine—exactly like her mother.

Mac shuddered, thanking the gods he’d sired a son,
knowing damn well he would have worried himself into an early grave if he’d had a daughter.

The young girl even took on Olivia’s same expression of concern when she spotted her mother’s swollen lip and puffy eyes. She stopped to ask a question once they reached the dirt road and the school bus started off again, and Mac saw Olivia’s smile widen as she made a gesture, obviously concocting some tale to explain her injury. Only it appeared the young girl wasn’t sure if she believed her, judging by her frown. She then tugged on the unfamiliar jacket her mother was wearing over her own and asked another question.

Mac watched Olivia glance guiltily toward him as she started unzipping it. But her daughter stopped her by grabbing her hand and pushing up the sleeve, exposing a bruise on Olivia’s wrist that had darkened enough for Mac to see from where he was standing.

“Sophie looks just like her mother,” Henry said, having come back from his chore to once again stand with his hands in his trouser pockets.

“Sophie?” Mac repeated, unable to remember Olivia mentioning her daughter by name. Probably because he’d been too angry that he’d been forced to release the bastard who’d brutalized her.

“Didn’t you hear Olivia tell me her daughter’s name is Sophie, and that she’s eight years old and in the second grade?” Henry glanced up at him then looked back at the women. “Even from here I can see they have the same colored eyes as each other, just like you and I do. Olivia’s eyes remind me of cinnamon, which is my favorite spice, and I bet Sophie’s are the same.” He suddenly frowned. “I don’t think I would have let the bast—that man drive away if I had caught him hurting Sophie.” He suddenly grinned menacingly. “I would have at least sent him home carrying his stones in his pocket.”