Maggie shook her head. "I'm going to have to find work, you know that. I've waited too long already." She looked at her daughter, and her eyes filled with tears. "I'll bring the bottle."
"You aren't going to like this," Carrie whispered to the baby as her customary silent remorse swamped her. "I don't like it, either. Life isn't fair sometimes, little one. It's not fair at all."
Anna Caroline, however, wasn't so choosy. She accepted the formula with the placid good grace that she usually exhibited, and Carrie leaned back, thinking there were few experiences more peaceful than feeding a sleepy baby. So peaceful, in fact, that she didn't leap up when she heard the men return, stamping their feet on the front porch, their voices deep, jovial, that new voice, deeper, slower, joining in.
"He's not going anywhere tonight," Lars said when he poked his head in the door, his square face red and beaming, his graying blond hair wet with melted snow. "The tire's flat, the rim's bent, and I'm not too sure about the axle. Come daylight it might be better than it looks. Can you bed him down here tonight? We'd be more than happy to take him in, but we don't have space in the car…"
"Of course I will. It'll be company for Jeffie. He's not sure he likes having to stay here while his parents are out of town. Having another man around might make it more palatable."
Lars nodded. "I told him you'd insist, but he's a man who doesn't like to accept favors."
"He's not used to small towns," Carrie said, rising from the chair with silent grace, never disturbing the sleeping infant. "Let me set him straight."
Lars took his daughter in his burly arms, looking down at her with complete devotion. "You do that, Carrie," he murmured absently. "I've never known a man who didn't toe the line when you told him to."
"Flatterer," Carrie said dryly, walking into the kitchen.
Gabriel was standing by the sink, drying the dishes. He glanced at her when she walked in, then immediately began polishing the old Meissen that had been passed down from her great-grandmother. Once again she was struck by the palpable intensity his presence brought into the room. And the odd, impossible feeling that she knew him from somewhere.
"You're stuck with Jeffie and me for the night," she announced cheerfully. "Don't bother arguing. You can't sleep in your truck, you'll freeze to death."
"A motel…" he suggested, not looking at her.
She wanted to see his eyes again. "Not for forty miles. No hotel, no boardinghouse, and the bed-and-breakfast places up by the lake are closed for the winter. You're stuck here, Gabriel."
"I don't like to be beholden to anyone." It was odd, the way the words seemed to surprise him when they came from his mouth.
"Don't worry, you won't be. I have a nice big wood box that needs filling, more firewood outside that could use some stacking. I've got things that need doing if you've got the desire to do them."
"I've got the desire," he said, and she got her wish. He looked at her, his eyes dark, almost black, in his face, and she felt herself slipping, falling, lost in a place that was foreign and yet familiar.
She stepped back, reaching behind her for the doorway, and she smiled briskly, remembering Lars's words. She could make any man toe the line, could she? She might run into a little trouble with this one if she didn't make certain things clear right away. Like the fact that she was no-nonsense, maternal, and a friend to all. Not a potential bedmate.
"Terrific," she said briskly. "We'll put you on the sofa, and first thing in the morning we'll get Steve and his tow truck out here. Assuming Steve's back from his mother's. We'll get you up and running again, and then you can decide whether you want to stay around here until your next job comes up."
He was still watching her, and she wished she'd never noticed his eyes in the first place. Now she couldn't look away. She couldn't rid herself of the notion that she'd looked into those eyes before. Except that they'd been a different color, held a different expression.
"Absurd," she muttered beneath her breath. Was she going to have to add delusions to her list of future symptoms?
He set the dish down on the pile, folding the faded linen dish towel in his big, strong hands. "I thought I'd stay," he said. "That is, if I can find a place closer than forty miles away."
Carrie glanced at Lars and Maggie, remembering their huge old house, made for a family of twelve, and their dwindling cash supply. "I have an idea or two," she murmured. "In the meantime, who wants to play charades?"
Gabriel blinked, just a momentary reaction, and she noticed his eyelashes were absurdly long. Typical, she thought, searching for her sense of humor. Just as she had decided to ignore her own selfish wants and embark on a mission to right the wrongs she'd inadvertently done, someone had sent her the most potent package of temptation she'd seen in her entire life.
Lars went over and slung an arm around Gabriel's shoulders. "Come along, Gabe," he boomed. "We'll show them a thing or two."
"Yeah," Jeffie piped up, for the first time not sullen. "Men against the women. We'll beat the stuffing out of them." And he looked up at Gabriel with shy, burgeoning adoration.
Lord, I hope I don't look the same, Carrie thought. "Wanna bet? Loser does the dishes tomorrow morning."
"Aw, Carrie…"
"Aw, Carrie, nothing," she said. "Don't you have any faith in your ability to stomp on us poor defenseless women?"
Jeffie cast another glance at Gabriel's unpromising expression. "We've got an unknown quantity on our side," he pointed out.
"Maybe I shouldn't play," Gabriel said in his slow, deep voice.
"Nonsense, What better way can we get to know someone? Especially since he's going to be around till Christmas. It's a trial by fire," Lars boomed.
"Trial by fire," Gabriel echoed. "That sounds about right." But the fire was in the depth of his dark, dangerous eyes. And despite the warmth of the old kitchen, Carrie shivered.
He was about a foot too long for the sofa. Tucking his arms under his head, Gabriel stared up at the ceiling, watching the faint shimmers of light that filtered from the minuscule cracks in the wood stove. Emerson would have fit on the sofa, he thought. But not Gabriel. His feet hung over the end, his size-thirteen feet, he'd discovered when he'd taken off his snow-wet sneakers. His backbone was curved against the lumpy cushions, and his head was throbbing. He was probably going to be a mass of stiffened muscles when he woke up the next morning. But at least he'd be warm enough. The wood stove was kicking out the heat, and the quilt that covered him was thick, beautiful and smothering. If he could just manage to clear his mind of all the distractions he would manage to sleep.
Problem was, he didn't want to. Never had life seemed so precious to him, now, in the quiet of the fire-lit living room of the old farmhouse. He could hear the wind howling outside, the dry crackle of the firewood, the solid chunk as a piece broke apart in the flames. He could hear Jeffie snoring faintly, in a bedroom miles away at the rear of the house. He could hear Carrie breathing in the room above him, hear the faint, steady beat of her heart. He could even hear the flakes of snow as they dropped to the ground.
He felt odd, disoriented, thrust into a life that was as foreign to him as if he'd landed on Mars. Even the things that should have been familiar seemed somehow different. The taste of turkey, for instance. A hundred times better than he'd ever remembered. And coffee. Strong, biting, absolutely delicious.
Lars's hearty friendship, Bill Milsom's shyer warmth, were things that were foreign, as well. As was Jeffie Baker, for some obscure reason staring up at him as if he were God walking the earth instead of an itinerant carpenter who'd managed to land himself in a ditch on a snowy night.
This would be a dangerous place to live, he thought. You might start believing in people, in things. And then where would you be?
He closed his eyes, shifting uncomfortably on the couch, and he knew it wasn't the lumpy cushion that was making him restless. It was that damned game of charades.
He hadn't played charades since he was ten years old and at su
mmer camp. Even then he'd thought it was an impossibly stupid game, juvenile and idiotic. He never would have thought adults would play it, and enjoy it. He never thought he'd be shouting out answers, completely involved. Until it had been Carrie Alexander's turn.
He'd vaguely known she was a dancer, but it hadn't meant anything to him. Until she'd risen and walked to the center of the room, elegant, simple grace radiating from her reed-slim body. He didn't even know what she'd been trying to act out. He hadn't heard the shouts from the women as they tried to guess, hadn't been aware of anything but the twist and flow of her, slow and sensuous and supple.
Hunger hadn't been his only physical appetite to return, he realized with a shock. Staring at Carrie Alexander, he knew a longing that was both intensely sexual and far beyond that. He wanted her with a need he'd never felt before. A need that shook him to the very marrow of his bones. A need he had no intention of giving in to. If he did, it would be an express ticket to hell.
But lying alone in that living room, he could give in to the fantasy. He could look through the darkness and imagine she was there again, moving, twisting, dancing, just for him. And then he shut his eyes tight, closing off the half-remembered vision, and let out a quiet, agonized groan. If he didn't make it through this sojourn, hell might end up being a picnic.
Another noise suddenly overwhelmed the intense peacefulness of the old house. A faint scrabbling sound that at first he identified as the never-before-heard sound of mice in the woodwork. And then he heard another sound, or lack thereof. Jeffie had stopped snoring.
He kept his breathing steady, not moving, as he listened to the sound of a door creak open. Someone was moving in the kitchen, someone so still and silent that Gabriel felt his heart stop. For a crazed, longing moment he thought it might be Carrie, coming to him. A moment later he dismissed the thought as patently absurd. Then he saw Jeffie's shadow on the wall in the kitchen as he reached across the table. For the half-empty bottle of wine.
None of his business, Gabriel told himself. The boy was close enough to drinking age, and it wasn't his problem. He wasn't here to save Jeffie Baker.
"You think you ought to be doing that?" He could hardly believe the quiet voice was coming from the stranger's body he was currently inhabiting. "After all, she's a good lady, welcoming you into her home, feeding you, making you welcome. Is that any way to repay her?" He pitched his voice so low it would carry no farther than the kitchen. He kept the reproach out of it—simply giving Jeffie the choice.
The shadow was absolutely motionless. And then the bottle was replaced, untouched, on the table, and the phantom figure moved away. A moment later he heard the sound of the door closing once more.
"Damn," he muttered beneath his breath. He should have kept his mouth shut. Who was he to give advice, opinions, admonishments? Who was he to involve himself in other people's problems, when his own were beyond overwhelming, beyond life threatening? They were eternal.
He had no idea whether he'd made Jeffie's situation better or worse. He told himself he didn't care, but the odd thing was, he did. For no reason at all, it mattered to him. He didn't want to see an already troubled boy get mired even deeper into the kind of mess life could be.
It wasn't until he heard the faint, measured sound of Jeffie's snoring that he let some of the tension drain out of his body. He hadn't even realized he'd been wired, until he let go of it. At least he hadn't traumatized the boy. Maybe he just needed someone to point out a few things to him. It wasn't his job, it was his parents'. Clearly they hadn't been meeting their responsibilities.
And then his body froze again as he heard the almost imperceptible sounds of someone moving through the old house. Not Jeffie this time—he was still snoring lightly. That left only one person, moving down the narrow, steep stairs, coming toward him, dressed in a filmy negligee, reaching out for him…
She wasn't wearing a filmy negligee, she was wearing an enveloping flannel nightgown that reached almost down to her narrow toes. Her straight blond hair was tousled with sleep, her face open and vulnerable as she moved into the living room, silent as a wraith. And he knew she hadn't come for a romp on the narrow sofa with a horny stranger.
She sat down on the rocking chair opposite him. She was wearing a shawl over the white nightgown, and as she pulled it closer around her chilled body he considered asking her if she wanted to share the quilt. He didn't. He just sat up on the sofa, waiting.
"Thank you," she said, her musical voice pitched so low he could just hear it.
"For what?"
"For Jeffie. It was so stupid of me, to leave the wine out. I was too tired to think straight."
"You knew there was a problem?"
"I know Jeffie has a lot of problems. I can't lock everything away and keep him from himself. But I don't have to waft temptation under his nose."
He looked at her, and knew a lot about temptation wafting under his nose. "He's not my responsibility."
"Of course not. Any more than he's mine. But that doesn't keep me from doing whatever good I can along the way."
"What will it get you in the end?" he countered, playing the devil's advocate. He'd spent his entire life looking out for himself, and himself alone.
She shrugged her narrow shoulders beneath the thick shawl, a self-deprecating smile on her face. "A place in heaven?" she suggested.
He shut his eyes for a moment, wishing he even had the faith to say, why me, Lord? But he didn't. He'd had too much of coincidences, of not-so-subtle reminders, of Angel Falls, Minnesota, and the vulnerable-looking woman opposite him whom he couldn't remember wanting when he could have had her. Now that she was out of reach he seemed to have developed an instantaneous obsession.
"I'm not going to worry about that," he said finally. "I expect I'm a lost cause."
"No one's a lost cause. You helped Jeffie tonight, even if your brain told you not to bother. I think you've got good instincts."
"I don't believe in instincts. I believe in facts." That was Emerson talking, Gabriel realized. His old pragmatic self.
"If you say so," Carrie said, rising from the rocking chair and opening the wood stove. She reached into the wood box for a thick log, and he was up off the sofa before he realized what he was doing, taking the wood out of her hand.
For a moment she didn't move, didn't release her grip on the heavy log. She was shorter than he remembered, coming up to his chin. But no, he was taller than he remembered, that was it. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and his jeans were zipped but unsnapped, and if she made the mistake of looking downward she'd find he was far from immune to her presence, to the enveloping flannel nightgown, to the faint, flowery scent of her.
She didn't look down. She looked up into his eyes, but the startled awareness was there all the same. Identical to the sudden, sure knowledge that rippled through his body, and he wanted to toss the log across the room and take her slender body into his arms.
He didn't, of course. Enough of the old Emerson remained to keep him reasonably well behaved. She released the piece of wood and stepped back, letting him load the stove with more force than dexterity. When he'd closed the door he found she was out of reach, standing by the kitchen.
"Thanks again," she said, her voice smooth and warm, devoid of any kind of sexual awareness.
Maybe he'd imagined that heated moment. But he didn't think so. She was aware of him, as he was of her. But she'd pulled her defenses around her as tightly as that shawl, presenting a friendly, sisterly front.
He wanted to cross the room in two quick strides, pull the shawl away from her and explain to her in definite physical terms that he had no need of a sister. He didn't move.
"Anytime," he murmured.
She disappeared then as silently as a ghost, and he heard her light footsteps as they moved quickly up the stairs again. The wood stove was radiating heat, but he barely noticed it. He was so damned hot already.
First thing tomorrow morning he needed to get his truck out of the ditch, get th
e tire repaired and get the hell away from temptation. There was no way he could save her if he slept with her. She didn't need a lover who was going to disappear on Christmas Eve. She needed commitment, a man to cherish her, till death do them part. He'd already passed that point.
He was half tempted to get away from Angel Falls altogether. He had no more faith than the imperial Augusta had in his ability to accomplish his mission. Maybe he ought to give up before he started, enjoy his month and take his punishment like a man.
He didn't even know what Carrie needed from him. Where her life needed fixing, what damage he'd caused her. She looked happy enough. She had friends, a charming if slightly tumbledown house. What was missing? What was broken?
But eternity was too high a stake to wager. And he couldn't remember anything in life that would be worth giving up a chance at heaven. He was going to tough it out, he was going to win, damn it. He wasn't a man who admitted defeat. He had a month, he had three miracles, and he'd already found one of the people he had to save. If he could just keep his raging hormones under control he'd do fine.
He sank back down onto the uncomfortable sofa, thinking about the woman sleeping overhead. Except she wasn't sleeping. She was lying upstairs, her eyes open, staring at the ceiling, just as he was. And sleep was going to be impossible tonight.
For both of them.
Chapter Three
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Carrie lay alone in the big bed, the bed she'd never shared, and waited for sleep to come. The snow had finally stopped—moonlight was streaming through the frosted-up window, sending shadow patterns across the old, faded rug.
Odd, Carrie thought, shifting around, looking for a comfortable spot on the wide mattress. She'd never thought about the bed being lonely before. But she was thinking about it tonight. And thinking about the man downstairs. Hovering over her, so damned big and yet not the slightest bit threatening.
At least, not in the usual sense. Gabriel Falconi was a threat. To her peace of mind. To her carefully acquired plan of celibacy and self-sacrifice. To the safe little cocoon she'd spun around her.