The incessant rain wouldn’t let up. The windows on the north side of the kitchen were glazed with ice, making it impossible to see out. She fed Baby the whole bottle and burped him with the skill of a mother of nine, then laid him back in his overstuffed chair while she tried to decide what to put on him to go out.
She found his pack on the table with the other stuff from her bag. It was still damp. She held it up to her face and breathed deeply, pulling in the familiar scent she had been surrounded by since yesterday afternoon. It smelled like Grey; she remembered the scent from when he had held her under the spruce tree, from the sweater he had put on her just before he tucked her in the cave, from the bed she’d shared with him in Daar’s cabin, and from the flannel shirt she had worn home this morning and now had safely folded on the pillow in the downstairs bedroom.
It was a smell that soothed her senses, silently speaking of friendship, security, trust, and even adventure.
She was keeping the shirt. She had washed her body, and she had to wash this pack, but she wasn’t washing Grey’s shirt, and she wasn’t returning it. It was a pretty plaid made up of gray and red, dark green and lavender stripes. She had never seen that combination of colors before, but she’d been immediately drawn to it the moment she had put it on. Yes, she was keeping it, and if he asked for it back, she would say she couldn’t find it.
She was going to hell for the lies she’d been telling. But here in Pine Creek, at least, she should be able to keep them straight. After all, there was only one that was important—that Baby was hers.
She washed the pack in the kitchen sink and set it near the furnace register to dry. She bundled Baby up in one of Mary’s old T-shirts, used a flannel pillowcase for a blanket, and carried him out to the attached barn.
That was when she discovered yet another problem. Baby’s car seat was still on top of North Finger Ridge. She looked around the old barn at the eclectic assortment of junk until she found an apple crate large enough for the four-week-old child. She laid Baby inside it, then strapped it into the passenger seat of the pickup. It probably wouldn’t pass Consumer Reports’ standard safety test, but it passed hers.
Baby wasn’t going anywhere by the time she was done using the seat belts to secure him.
And Baby, good little uncomplaining infant that he was, was simply watching her as she worked.
“Oh, sweetie. I promise the chaos will stop now that we’re home. Just this one trip to the store, and we’ll both settle down for a well-deserved rest,” she whispered to him, running a finger over his cheek and kissing his forehead.
She softly closed the door and walked around to open the two huge barn doors, rolling each of them back, one at a time. Grace thought about Michael MacBain and her promise to Mary. Mary had said that Michael was all alone and new to the area. Which in Mary’s book would make the man somewhat of an exile. Could that have attracted her to him initially?
Grace climbed into the truck, chastising herself for being fanciful. Mary had simply found the man she loved. And Grace was sure Michael MacBain was a nice, normal, lovable man who just happened to suffer from the delusion that he’d traveled through time.
Chapter Eight
He was a brute.
And he was standing in the middle of her kitchen. Grace shot a look at the clock on the living-room wall, realized it was nearly midnight, and quickly turned her attention back to the stranger dripping water on her kitchen floor. The freezing rain only added to his frightening appearance as it beat against the broken door behind him. His hands were balled into fists at his side, and his silhouette from the porch light said he was huge, menacing, and mad.
“Mary!” he hollered again, looking around the vacant room. “Dammit, woman. Show yourself.”
It took every ounce of courage she possessed, and the security of the baseball bat in her hand, for Grace to step out from behind the living-room door and face him.
“Mary’s not here,” she told him softly.
The man was a giant. His dripping hair was black, falling below his turned-up collar. His eyes, narrowed dangerously, were a dark, piercing gray. His mouth was thinned by the defensive set of his jaw that was shadowed by a two-day growth of beard. Grounded to her kitchen floor like a statue of granite, he looked formidable. Predatory.
And unmovable.
Grace raised her bat threateningly.
“May I ask who is calling?” she asked, damning her voice for shaking.
Her question momentarily disarmed him, but he quickly recovered. “Michael MacBain is doing the asking. And I’m only asking one more time. Where’s Mary?”
Oh, God. She wasn’t ready for this. She thought she had more time to prepare. Grace darted a look at the tin on the table. What could she tell him?
“She’s…ah…she’s not here, Michael,” she whispered. “I’m her sister, Grace.” She took a step closer, lowering her weapon. “She may have mentioned me to you?”
He didn’t believe her. He strode right past her into the living room. When he didn’t find Mary there, he continued going from one room to the other, even upstairs.
Grace let him search. Her baseball bat wouldn’t stop him, even if she dared to use it against him. The man looked as solid and indestructible as a mountain.
He found Baby on his second pass through the living room. He stopped suddenly and stared down at the child. He looked at her, then back at Baby, his eyes narrowed and his stance stiff.
There was no way around it. She was going to have to just come out and say the words.
“I’m sorry, Michael,” she said, drawing his attention again. “Mary was in an automobile accident six weeks ago,” Grace said, lying about the date of Mary’s death. She didn’t want Michael even to remotely suspect that four-week-old Baby was his son. Grace looked down at the floor, gathering her courage, then looked back at him. “She died. I’m sorry. There was nothing anyone could do.”
He simply stared at her, his face growing deathly pale as he listened silently.
“She was on her way back,” she told him, walking fully into the living room. “She was returning to you.”
He looked back at Baby. “The child?” he asked, his voice dead-toned.
“He’s…he’s mine.”
He was silent so long Grace was afraid he didn’t believe her. Suddenly, he walked away from the makeshift crib she’d made out of the apple crate and strode past her, back into the kitchen. He walked to the broken door and shut it as best he could, then quietly walked back to the kitchen table and sat down.
He bent at the waist, his hands clasped hanging over his knees, staring at the floor. He stayed that way for a good five minutes.
Grace leaned the baseball bat against the wall and walked to the stove, putting the teakettle on the burner. She took down two cups from the cupboard and measured out hot cocoa mix in each of them.
“Did she suffer?” he asked, his voice echoing softly throughout the kitchen. “Did she die instantly, or was she alive in a hospital?”
Grace turned to face him. The dangerous mountain of a man was no longer looking quite so dangerous.
His hands were still hanging over his knees, and he was upright now, but he remained staring at the floor, all the fight suddenly gone from him.
“She lived a day and a half,” she told him truthfully. “And she was conscious. We talked about many things, but Mary talked mostly of you.”
She walked over to him and gently, hesitantly, set her hand on his shoulder. He didn’t move but still stared at a spot between his feet. His muscles, though, were bunched so tightly his back felt like forged steel.
“She asked me to tell you she loved you, Michael. And that she hopes you’ll forgive her for running away in the first place. She said…she said she just needed some time to herself, to think about your marriage proposal.”