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The Wrong Man
Laura Abbot


Being married to the wrong man can lead only to divorceIt was a hard lesson, but Libby Cameron learned it. Twelve years later, her ex-husband has moved to town. Libby's too smart to go down that road again. But doing the smart thing isn't easy once she discovers that Trent is fathering a sweet and sad little girl all by himself.Kylie Baker needs her, and Libby can't ignore that fact. Nor can she ignore the feelings for Trent that she's starting to have. But how can she forget their previous life together or the times he let her down? Has Trent really changed? Can the wrong man ever turn into the right one?









Trent Baker? Here in Whitefish?


Nothing could have prepared Libby for the onslaught of emotions she felt at seeing him again—everything from shock, grief and anger to joy, hope and regret. Somehow Libby pulled herself together enough to get Trent’s daughter settled for recess.

On the playground the girls headed for the swings, while the boys clustered around a soccer ball, dividing into teams. Kylie, however, stood just outside the door, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her parka.

Libby approached the little girl. “It’s hard being new, isn’t it? Everything seems unfamiliar. We all want to help you, though. Will you let us?”

The answer was a sniffle. Digging out a tissue, Libby helped dry her tears. When Kylie shyly slipped her hand into Libby’s, a satisfying warmth traveled through her. This little girl was so desperate for love. But she was Trent’s daughter. Libby mustn’t get too involved.

Throughout recess Kylie remained by her side. Libby learned a lot about her. But it was the girl’s answer to her final question that lanced the scar Libby had thought forever sealed. “Why did you move to Whitefish, Kylie?”

The wistfulness of the whispered reply explained everything. “So my daddy could be happy.”

Of course. Wasn’t that just like the Trent she’d been married to? His happiness, his comfort. That was all that mattered.


Dear Reader,

Timing is everything! My husband and I have often reflected that had we met in our early twenties, neither of us would have given the other a second glance. But how differently we saw ourselves and each other in our mid-thirties. Sparks! Fireworks! A whirlwind courtship! Huh? What happened?

Change, that’s what, and a huge dose of the kind of wisdom one learns only through experience, some of it painful. One of those lessons is that a relationship, if it is to last, requires attention and work every single day! Love at first sight may just “happen,” but successful marriages require commitment, compromise and effort.

In The Wrong Man, Libby Cameron and Trent Baker marry young, full of unrealistic expectations and burdened by pasts neither is willing to share. They have a great deal to learn about the importance of communication and trust, but before those lessons can be learned, they divorce.

Fast forward to the time when Trent moves back to northwest Montana and meets Libby again. As I said before, timing is everything. Sparks! Fireworks! A whirlwind courtship! But far more important is the fact that they see each other more clearly and recognize what it means to love and cherish one another.

I would be remiss not to thank the wonderful people we encountered during our stay in the Flathead Valley of Montana. Being from Arkansas I understand Southern hospitality, but the folks we met in Montana really know how to make a person feel welcome! And the scenery? Breathtaking!

Enjoy,

Laura Abbot

P.S. I love to hear from readers. Write me at P.O. Box 373, Eureka Springs, AR, 72632-0373, or check the Superromance Web site at www.superromance.com.




The Wrong Man

Laura Abbot





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Marcia, my “forever” friend, and Steve,

who has always been the “right man,”

with love and appreciation for a lifetime

of rare and enduring friendship




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

EPILOGUE




CHAPTER ONE


CHURNING WHITE-WATER rapids, treacherous black slopes, amateur bronc riding. Until recently, Trent Baker had dared much, accustomed to triumphing over obstacles. Nothing, however, had prepared him for the reality of being a single father.

“Kylie, honey, you’ll be late for school.”

“I’ve got to find it, Daddy. Mommy said it looks pretty.”

Curbing his impatience, Trent slumped against the wall of the pink-and-white bedroom while his seven-year-old daughter emptied the contents of her musical jewelry box, hunting for the elusive barrette she insisted was the only one that matched her outfit—pink leotards and a purple-and-pink flowered turtleneck. They’d already searched her dresser drawers, the floor of her closet and the bathroom cabinet.

“Here it is!” She pirouetted to face him, her corn-flower-blue eyes alight. She handed him her hair-brush, then plopped onto her bed. “Fix me.”

Her innocent words stabbed him. Doing his daughter’s hair was challenge enough. Other things, regretfully, went far beyond “fixable.”

Kylie sat quietly as he drew the brush through her straight, silky blond hair, so like her mother’s. Fumbling with the barrette clasp, Trent wished for the umpteenth time that little girls came with instruction manuals. His clumsy fingers could scarcely wrap around the purple plastic bow. “How’s that?” he said at last.

She jumped up to inspect herself in the mirror. “It’s crooked.”

Trent sighed. Ashley would have done it perfectly. “Get your coat, honey.”

Her look let him know he’d failed as a hairdresser, but to his relief, she walked to the hall closet, where he helped her into her parka, careful not to disturb the all-important barrette.

Dragging her book bag behind her, she followed him from their first-floor condominium to his extended-cab pickup, engine and defroster already running. After settling Kylie in the back seat, Trent scraped the remaining ice and snow from the windshield. “Warm enough?” he asked as he climbed behind the wheel.

Kylie merely shrugged, folding her arms around her body and ducking her head, her lower lip thrust out.

With slight variations, the same thing happened each morning. Today the delaying tactic was the lost barrette. Other times she complained of a stomachache, refused to eat breakfast or gave him the silent treatment, as she was doing now. He fought the familiar panic. He had no idea what to do for her—with her.

Ashley had always known. But Ashley wasn’t here. Would never be here. And back then… Kylie had been a model child.

Her behavior was natural, the school counselor had told him. Children handled grief in different ways, an aversion to school being one of them. Or withdrawal. Controlling behavior. Acting out.

Trent glanced in the rearview mirror. Eyes downcast, Kylie stared at her clasped hands. She looked fragile, defenseless, lonely.

His grip tightened on the steering wheel. It wasn’t fair. Vibrant, beautiful Ashley wasting away, ravaged by the relentless leukemia he’d been powerless to stop. Nearly a year had passed, and still their condo echoed with her absence. The leukemia had sent a message loud and clear. Trent Baker no longer controlled his life. Hell, he couldn’t even find a way to help Kylie. Some kind of father he was.

A sullen voice from the back seat jarred him. “I’m not going.”

He struggled for a neutral tone. “We’ve discussed this, Kylie. You are going. It’s the law.”

“I hate you!” He couldn’t bring himself to glimpse in the mirror once more and see the belligerence that he knew sparked in his daughter’s eyes.

“That’s too bad. I love you.” Pulling in to the driveway of the school, he noted that most of the children had already been dropped off. While Kylie unbuckled her seat belt, he spoke soothingly. “Try to enjoy yourself. Give school a chance. You just might like it.” He mustered a grin, which was met with the withering scorn of a pint-size cynic.

Kylie scrambled from the car, and without a backward glance trudged toward the school entrance. By afternoon, her teacher had told him, Kylie would be fine, but with a fatalism born of experience, he knew that the cycle would repeat itself tomorrow morning.

It didn’t help that after school she would be bussed to a day-care center and then picked up by her grandmother until he got off work. Or that the cold Montana winter kept her confined to the condominium much of the rest of the time. Or that his rental agreement prohibited pets.

But even if he could have addressed all those issues, he still wouldn’t be able to provide the one thing she needed most—her mother.



LIBBY CAMERON shrugged into her goose-down coat, gathered the tote bag loaded with graded papers, locked the door and carefully made her way down the ice-covered steps of her house toward the Suburban SUV waiting at the curb. “Brr,” she said as she climbed into the passenger seat. “Cold morning in Whitefish.”

Doug Travers grinned. “What’s a little bracing Montana air?” He picked up her gloved hand. “Especially when I’m with such a pretty woman.”

The scent of expensive after-shave and new-car leather mingled with the welcome warmth from the heater. “Thanks for taking me to work. One of the other teachers will drop me off at the garage after school to pick up my car.”

“Sure I can’t help?” The eagerness in Doug’s voice was unmistakable.

She studied his profile—firm chin, full lips, Roman nose, high forehead, prematurely receding hairline. Handsome in a successful-executive kind of way. A good man. Dependable. Family-oriented.

Libby had been surprised when Mary Travers, principal of the elementary school where she taught, had suggested the blind date with her son. Initially Libby had resisted, reluctant to consider dating after several dead-end relationships. And she most certainly did not want to entertain that ridiculous fantasy called romance. In fact, living alone was a bargain compared with hooking up with the wrong man. She was no fool, and experience had been a powerful teacher. Yet slowly but surely, Doug had ingratiated himself with her. He had been a total gentleman in the six months they’d been dating, and much as she hated to admit it, having an escort for movies, community functions and faculty parties was pleasant.

“Lib, I was able to get tickets to the symphony in Missoula this weekend. I thought we could run down there, have a fancy dinner, take in the concert, stay at the new bed-and-breakfast I heard about.”

Her palms moistened in her suddenly overwarm gloves. Was it her imagination or had he deftly slipped in that last part about the B and B? She found herself stammering, “I…the concert… Who’s the guest artist?”

He gave her a puzzled look before answering. “A cellist from Prague.”

“Oh.” Say something, she urged herself. “Which night?”

“Saturday,” he said evenly as he pulled into the faculty parking lot.

She scrambled to hook her arm through the handles of her tote. “Let me think about it.”

He stayed her departure with a hand on her forearm. “Lib, are you worried about the B and B?”

Her mouth went dry as week-old chalk dust. “I didn’t quite know what to think.” She must sound ridiculous. Any thirty-plus woman in northwest Montana would jump at the chance to spend a weekend with Doug Travers. By any standards, he was a catch. A successful insurance agent accustomed to nice things, generous with his money, a doting son and uncle. She wished…

“I’ll book separate rooms,” he said, his wistfulness implying he had hoped for something else.

Libby swallowed. “That would be nice.” She stepped from the car. “All right, then. I’ll look forward to it.”

As she stood in the overcast early morning watching him drive off, an unsettled feeling lodged in her stomach. Up to now their relationship had been…comfortable.

The cold December wind whipped the ends of her scarf, mocking the word. What normal, red-blooded man wanted to settle for comfortable?

Why couldn’t she offer more?

She knew the answer. Don’t go there, she muttered as she sought the sanctuary of her brightly decorated classroom, where the giggles, hugs and infectious enthusiasm of second-graders made her come alive in a way nothing else had since…

Idiot! Absolutely do not go there.



TRENT RESTED on his haunches, surveying the French doors he’d just installed in the monstrous family room. Through the glass he could see the city of Billings, then, across the Yellowstone River, the sweep of prairie shadowed by dark, heavy clouds. Behind him in the kitchen, his father-in-law conferred with the demanding home owners, who were belatedly requesting yet another change in the specifications. Trent groaned. He didn’t understand how Gus stood it, but as his father-in-law frequently reminded him, building a custom house meant exactly that—fulfilling the customer’s expectations, no matter how inconvenient or frivolous.

Tool chest in hand, Trent moved to the guest bedroom, out of earshot. Plugging in his sander, he worked on shelves for a built-in bookcase. Even before his friend Chad’s phone call last week, he’d wondered how much longer he could last as a home builder. Not that he hadn’t appreciated Gus Chisholm’s employment offer at the time. When Trent had met Ashley, he was coming off a series of jobs that included ski instructor, rafting guide, ranch hand and carpenter. He’d known he had to settle down if he wanted to marry her. Up to that point, though, he’d concentrated on fun and adventure, unwilling to commit to the hazy notion of “career.”

Soon after, it was no longer a question of wanting to marry Ashley. He needed to marry her. Her pregnancy had caught both of them off guard. So much for the infallibility of condoms.

Gus’s offer to have Trent join him in his business building luxury homes had been a godsend, and he didn’t want to think about what he and Ashley would’ve done without the company medical insurance when Ashley got sick. But more and more lately, Trent realized he didn’t have the patience for the construction business or the diplomacy to massage the egos of wealthy, demanding clients.

Was now the time to make a change? Chad Larraby, his best friend since boyhood, needed a partner in order to buy out Swan Mountain Adventures, an outfitter in their hometown of Whitefish that offered seasonal excursions—rafting, hunting, fishing, hiking, backpacking and mountain biking. It was the perfect job opportunity. He and Chad had always made a great team, whether it was pulling off a spectacular high-school prank or combining their scoring talents to win the league basketball championship. There was no one Trent trusted more.

He pinched his nose, permanently crooked from an opposing center’s elbow. Back then, he and Chad were convinced the world had been invented for pleasure, and they had taken every opportunity to test that belief. Now? Chad was married with a son and a daughter, and both men took fatherhood seriously. Although miles apart, they’d tried to stay in touch, but since Ashley’s death, Trent had especially missed his friend’s ready laugh and common sense. Chad’s was an offer he had to consider. The work would satisfy both his zest for adventure and his need to secure the future.

But what would a move back to Whitefish—or anywhere for that matter—do to Kylie? Was it fair to uproot her from her grandparents?

It wasn’t a question of finances. He and Ashley had set aside considerable savings, hoping to buy a house, and Gus had been generous with bonuses. There was also the money from Ashley’s life insurance policy, which he hadn’t been able to bring himself to touch. But if it bought him and Kylie a better future?

With the palm of his hand he tested the newly sanded shelf, then nodded with satisfaction. Chad’s offer seemed perfect for him.

Except for one thing.

If he moved back to the Glacier Park area of Montana, inevitably he would run into Lib. Why subject himself to a past he’d moved beyond?

Liar! You haven’t moved beyond anything.

Ever since Chad’s call, Trent could hold back neither his thoughts of Libby nor the powerful emotions those memories churned up. What did philosophers say about first love? You never quite get over it? Trent leaned against the wall, wishing life could be simple. Yet the mental pictures of Libby—her dark, thick ponytail flying behind her as she skimmed over a mogul, her warm body pressed against his, firelight turning her skin to flame—halted him in his tracks. Stop it, Baker. He ran his fingers through his hair. Why was he thinking of Lib? That was in the past and needed to stay there.

Yet despite his resolve, he had another sudden image of Libby, who nurtured every small creature she met, enfolding his daughter in her arms.

Jeez, when you lose it, you go all out.

From the hallway he heard Gus call his name.

“Coming,” he said, gathering up his tools. Even if he couldn’t picture himself as a career home builder, did he dare leave a secure job? Move Kylie? Bet on a future that held a great deal of promise but no guarantees? The alternative was spending a lifetime doing work he didn’t enjoy. The last thing Kylie needed was an unhappy father.

At Gus’s direction, he moved to the dining room to install wainscoting. Yet as he worked, his thoughts were a million miles away.

Chad needed an answer. Soon. Trent could rationalize all he wanted, but the truth reverberated with every blow of his hammer. His decision was a resounding “Yes!”



BY THE END OF THE DAY, Kirby Bell had mastered addition of two-digit numbers, Heather Amundsen had gum snarled in her hair, and Josh Jacobs had upchucked his lunch. Libby had a kink in her back from helping little feet into boots, but as the last second-grader left the room, throwing his chubby arms around her waist in a fleeting hug, she smiled with satisfaction and relief.

Straightening the rows of desks, she relished the smells of glue, markers and modeling clay that lingered in the classroom. Almost daily she thanked her lucky stars that she had found the work she was born to do and that it paid enough for her to live simply and comfortably in one of the most beautiful places in the world.

In preparation for the upcoming visit from master storyteller Louise Running Wolf McCann, Libby removed the photographs of plants of the Northwest from the bulletin board, replacing them with those of indigenous animals. “Weezer,” as the Blackfoot woman was known to generations of Whitefish children, would share Native American animal legends with the class.

Returning to her desk, Libby gathered the day’s worksheets. She frowned when she noticed that little Rory Polk had left half the answers on his reading sheet blank. Bless his heart, he tried so hard to hide, burrowing into his desk and making himself even smaller, hoping to escape observation. Libby couldn’t shake the nagging sensation that something might be wrong at home.

A glance at her watch told her it was time to meet Lois Jeter, her best friend and colleague, in the office if she wanted a ride to the garage.

She hurried down the hall, noting with pleasure the red and green links of construction paper making a merry border for various holiday art projects. Mary Travers stood outside the office, her hands resting on the shoulders of a scrawny fourth-grader. “Jeffrey, we’ve talked before about snowballs. Are we going to have to have another conversation?”

The boy hung his head. “No, ma’am.”

“Good. I know throwing snowballs is fun, but it can also be dangerous, especially with so many little ones in the area.”

Libby watched Mary turn the boy around, pat his back and send him on his way. The principal, a short, bouncy woman with youthful skin and salt-and-pepper hair drawn back into a simple chignon, ran a tight but loving ship and was universally respected.

Libby approached her. “That went well.”

Smiling, Mary shook her head. “Boys. It’s so hard for them to resist temptation.” She accompanied Libby to the office. “How was your day?”

“Almost perfect. Just like all of them.”

“You can say that even after the Josh Jacobs caper?”

“That goes with the territory. Poor little guy. He was so embarrassed.”

Mary’s voice lowered. “We couldn’t reach his mother until just before school was out.”

“Let me guess. She was irritated he was sick?”

“That would be an understatement. Some people should simply never have children.”

Libby winced. Why were people like Mrs. Jacobs given the gift of children when she wasn’t? Quickly, she controlled her emotions. “That’s one reason we’re here. To pick up the pieces.”

“Lib,” a voice rang from down the hallway. “I’ll be right there.” Redheaded Lois Jeter, the physical education teacher, scrambled into her all-weather coat and hurried toward them. “Sorry, the gym was a disaster area today. I just now got the mats hung up.”

“We really appreciate you,” Libby assured her with a grin. “On these wintry days, the kids need to work off all the steam they can.”

Mary turned toward Libby. “I understand you and Doug are going to work off some steam this weekend in Missoula.”

Hearing “steam” and “Doug” in the same sentence caused butterflies to converge in Libby’s stomach. It didn’t help that Mary was beaming approval that had nothing to do with Libby’s skillful handling of a second-grader’s intestinal upset.

“Missoula?” Lois cocked an eyebrow.

“We’re going to the symphony.”

Lois threw up her hands in playful despair. “And here I thought you were going to hit the wild club scene.”

Libby did her best to match the mood. “What? And miss Mozart? I’m looking forward to a bit of culture.”

“So is Doug, my dear.” Mary patted Libby’s shoulder. “So is Doug.”

On the ride to the garage, Libby was grateful that Lois’s chatter prevented her from dwelling on the expectant look in Mary Travers’s eyes. Worse yet, she didn’t want to consider why Mary’s approval bothered her.



TRENT SAT at the table in the kitchenette alcove, poring over figures. In front of him was Chad’s printout of estimated start-up costs, profit-and-loss statements from the last three years, and a breakdown of income generated by the various services Swan Mountain Adventures offered. Because of recent forest fires in the area, the current owners were making them a heck of a deal. Chad had the people skills and the business background to handle accounting and marketing, and Trent knew equipment and maintenance. They shared knowledge of the outdoors and expertise in guiding. With hard work and a bit of luck, the venture looked like a winner.

Setting down the pencil, he stared into the living room, where Kylie sat on the floor, Barbies positioned around her in a protective circle. She mumbled dialogue as she picked up first one and then another of the well-endowed dolls. “Mommy doesn’t want you to wear orange with red,” he heard her chide the platinum-blond figure. She shook her head disapprovingly. “They don’t match.”

He closed his eyes briefly. Ashley had been a clotheshorse, occasionally straining their finances with her need to look bandbox perfect, but he had to give it to her. Heads had turned when she walked into a room. Kylie’s prissiness, on the other hand, worried him. It was as if she’d seized on her appearance as a means to…what? Control her world? Keep Ashley’s memory alive?

“Daddy?”

Trent’s eyes snapped open. “What, baby?”

“Are you doing homework?”

“I guess you could call it that.”

She set down the doll and approached him, her forehead wrinkled. “You don’t go to school.”

“No, but I work.”

Sidling up to him, she put her thin arm around his neck. “With tools. You’re a carmpenter.”

Her mispronunciation of the word never failed to amuse him. “Car-pen-ter.” He ruffled her hair, then drew a deep breath before launching the subject he’d been avoiding. “What if I didn’t want to be a carpenter any longer?”

Eyes widening, she looked at him as if he’d just emerged from a UFO. “Not be a carmpenter? What would you be then?” Before he could begin his carefully reasoned explanation, she hurried on. “I know! You could be the boss, like Grandpa Gus.”

He pulled her up on his lap, snuggling her against his chest. “No, honey, I couldn’t. Even if I were the boss, I would still miss doing all the things I love.”

“You don’t love carmpentry?” She sounded surprised, as if fathers weren’t supposed to change—ever.

“No, honey, I don’t. I love hiking and skiing and fishing and being out-of-doors.”

“Oh.” She nodded her head in understanding.

“You want to play, not work.”

Play? Was that what this was? An immature need to recapture his adolescence?

“What if my work felt like play?”

She giggled. “That’s silly, Daddy.”

“What if I could be—” he hesitated, his mouth dry “—happier?”

Lifting one small hand to his cheek, she studied him. “We’re sad, aren’t we? We miss Mommy, right?”

“But Mommy would want us to be happy again, to laugh and play.”

“Okay,” she said, as if the matter was settled.

Okay? If only it could be that simple. He had gone back and forth about the best way to break the news to Kylie, but now that the time had come, the words stuck in his throat. He licked his lips, cuddled her closer, and then, with a deep breath, began, “I have something important to tell you, and I want you to listen carefully.”

“It’s about Mommy, isn’t it?”

“Not exactly.”

She rubbed her nose. “I know. About your carmpentry.”

“Yes. Yesterday I told Grandpa that I won’t be working for him anymore.” Much as he’d dreaded telling Gus his plans, Trent had been relieved when, despite his obvious disappointment, his father-in-law had claimed to understand. Now he said to Kylie, “I’ve accepted a job in a place called Whitefish that will make me much happier. I think you’ll really love it there.”

“We’re moving?”

Swallowing hard, he nodded.

She jumped from his lap and stood glaring at him, her fingers working the lace trim of her sweatshirt. “No!”

“But, honey—”

“I’m not going.” Her protruding lower lip sent a powerful message.

“Just now you said it would be okay for us to learn to laugh and play again.”

She stamped her foot. “But right here.”

Tension knotted Trent’s gut. “You’ll like Whitefish. It’s where I went to school.”

“I don’t like fish!”

“There are lakes and mountains. You can learn to ski and snowshoe and—”

“No.” She shook her head back and forth, her straight blond hair fanning the air. “We can’t leave.”

Trent tried desperately to see the situation from his daughter’s point of view. She’d had too many changes lately. Did he have any right to inflict one more on her, even one that would free him in ways that made him light-headed with relief? “Why not?”

Kylie stood stock-still, looking at him as if he had just asked the world’s most ridiculous question. “Because Mommy’s here.”

His chest ached. “Sweetie, we’ve been over this so many times. Mommy is dead. Even though she is never coming back, she is always with us in spirit, but she isn’t in Billings.”

He watched, thunderstruck, as Kylie’s face screwed up into a red ball before she screamed at him, “She is too! She’s at that place with the stone. The c-cemcementery!”

“Oh, honey.” Although Kylie struggled against him, he gathered her back into his arms, where she remained stiff and unmoving. “The decision has been made.”

She stared at the far wall. “I’m not going.”

This was harder than he’d imagined. “Where else would you live except with me?”

“With Grandma Georgia and Grandpa Gus.”

Trent bit his lower lip, knowing full well his in-laws would welcome that plan. “Wouldn’t you miss me?”

She shrugged, unwilling to meet his eyes. “You could visit me.”

It was time for a dose of reality. “I wouldn’t be able to visit very often. I’ll be working.”

She didn’t move.

“I’d really like you to come with me. In Whitefish there’s a big lake and a ski slope. You could go to the same school where I went as a little boy.”

Her lips quivered and she wrung the hem of her shirt.

“Looks like we have a problem, doesn’t it? I’m not happy being a carpenter. You don’t want to leave Billings. What do you think we should do about this?”

“What would you do there—in that place?” she mumbled.

Patiently he explained about the adventure-outfitting business. About his love of the out-of-doors, which he wanted to share with her. About how lonely he would be without her.

“Where would we live?”

“To start with, in Weezer McCann’s guest cabin.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Weezer? Who’s that?”

“I’ve told you about her. Remember, she’s the lady who helped Grandma Lila and me when I was a little boy. She was like my second mother. You’ll love her. She tells the most wonderful stories.”

Kylie twined her fingers around his wrist. “What about?”

Good Lord, had he actually succeeded in capturing her interest? “Native American legends about birds and fish and animals. Why they’re named what they are. Why they do what they do.”

“Like beavers and bears and stuff?”

“Exactly.”

Just when he thought he’d convinced her, she scowled. “No,” she said, adamantly shaking her head. “I have to stay here.”

Gently he ran a hand over her soft hair. “Can you tell me why?”

She sniffled against his shirt. “Mommy.”

He held her close, feeling her fists curl against his chest. “Mommy is in heaven. Don’t you suppose she wants us to be happy?”

Seconds passed. Then she looked up at him. “I ’spect so.”

“Our love for Mommy and our memories of her can go with us anywhere in the whole wide world, right?”

A teary nod.

“So whaddya say we take Mommy with us to a place where you and I can be happy? She would love it. It’s beautiful country filled with wildflowers, big green trees and gurgling streams.”

She squirmed to the end of his knees and regarded him thoughtfully. “Did you say mountains?”

“Spectacular mountains.”

“Ice cream?”

The non sequitur made him laugh. “Scoops and scoops of it!”

She looked directly into his eyes. “Daddy, I like it when you laugh. Do you think you can laugh again when we go to that fish place?”

Laugh again? Dear God, had he been that out of touch? He reached for her and enfolded her in a huge bear hug. “Yes, sweetie, I’ll laugh again—lots more. And so will you.”

“Okay, then.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I’m glad you’re coming with me.”

“But there’s one thing.”

At this point he would gladly have presented her with the entire state of Montana had it been within his power. “What’s that?”

“I know Mommy’s with us in spirit, like you said, but what about that cementery? Could we go say goodbye before we move?”

Trent’s heart shattered. “Tomorrow, honey.”

With the wisdom given only to children, she had hit upon the one act he now realized he, too, needed to perform.



LIBBY DUCKED her head as she and Doug climbed the steps of the bed-and-breakfast following the symphony. Brahms and Mozart had done little to soothe her nerves. Instead, she’d spent most of the concert thinking about whether her insistence on two rooms had jeopardized her best chance for love and family.

“Feel like a nightcap?” Doug asked in the lobby as he removed her coat. “There’s a wonderful gas fireplace in my room—and a bottle of Amaretto.”

Doug, always considerate, deserved her enthusiasm. “It’s hard to turn down a cozy fire and an after-dinner drink.” She smiled. “Not to mention one very nice man.”

“Good,” he said, his eyes warm with affection.

The fireplace cast light and shadow over Doug’s room, which was decorated in deep burgundy and green tones. Settling her on the love seat, he filled two goblets, then sat beside her, raising her glass in a toast before handing it to her. “Here’s to you, Libby.”

The toast was definitely more than a casual “Here’s to ya.” Libby watched him sip from his glass, then sit back in satisfaction, before she took a swallow, letting the almond sweetness linger on her tongue.

To fill the silence, she started a discussion of the concert. She’d always loved music, even as a tiny child. A dim memory returned, a long-lost vignette. Her mother sitting in the corner of the high-ceilinged living room, the sun falling on her dark curly hair as she bent to the harp, the melody of the plucked strings sending a thrill through Libby’s small body. How old had she been? Four? Five? Gazing now into the dancing flames, she treasured the immediacy of the image before recalling the dark days that followed. When she was six, her mother died, and the silenced harp gathered dust in the corner until her stepfather had finally sold it.

“You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden,” Doug said, taking her half-empty glass and setting it on the coffee table beside his.

“Just remembering.” His arm settled around her shoulder. “Music does that for me.”

“Evocative,” he said quietly.

“Very.”

“Feel like telling me about it?”

She shrugged.

“You don’t talk much about the past.”

What was the point? Talking didn’t change anything. “No.” She tried a cheery smile. “The present and future are so much more compelling.”

She observed a question in his eyes, but he didn’t press her, for which she was grateful. “I could get interested in discussing the present and the future,” he whispered, drawing her into his arms. “Starting with tonight.” He lowered his head and began kissing her.

Libby’s awareness hovered somewhere above and beyond the pressure of his mouth, the tingle of his fingers running through her hair. He’d kissed her before, of course, but this was different. Not unpleasant, but no longer merely platonic.

She tried to relax, to give in to the sensation of being held, of arousing a man again. He cupped the back of her head, deepening the kiss, his tongue seeking hers. Involuntarily, an erotic response flared within her, irritating her. She didn’t want this, yet at the same time, she did. It was the best thing that could happen. Doug made her feel desirable. Safe.

When he withdrew, he framed her face with his hands, and his eyes were glazed with desire. “You’re sure about the two rooms?”

She bit her lip. Was she? Sooner or later… Suddenly it all seemed too pat, too contrived—a seduction scene. Then, out of the blue, another memory hit her—this one about spontaneity, blood-pounding need and the frantic urge to bare her body in a mindless frenzy. She froze.

“Libby?”

“Not tonight.” The words sounded like a parody of every bored, headachy housewife.

“Soon?” he asked hopefully.

She ducked her head. She wanted a husband. A home. Tears darted to her eyes. Children. Especially children. “We’ll see.”

Doug would make a wonderful father. Sadly, she knew from bitter experience that the same could not be said about some men.

One in particular.

Almost unconsciously, she pressed her hands over the flat of her womb, sensing the emptiness within.

From somewhere outside her, she heard Doug’s voice. “I care about you, Libby. I can be patient.”

She dissolved against him, feeling the steady beat of his heart, his body radiating a heat that slowly thawed the chill in hers.

It was well after midnight when she finally roused from his embrace and went to her room.

Alone.



GEORGIA CHILSOLM PAUSED in the doorway of her immaculate living room. A single dust mote fluttered and settled on the polished surface of the sofa table. She moved forward, wiping the cherry wood with the tissue she held in her hand. Then, walking briskly across the room, she aligned the pillows on the damask sofa, which were off by a fraction of an inch. The latest issues of Architectural Digest and House and Garden lay fanned on the coffee table. She checked to see that the large crystal vase of carefully arranged gladioli held sufficient water. Satisfied that all was in order, she permitted herself to stand before the fireplace, studying the pastel portrait hanging above the mantel. Ashley.

Every afternoon she spent time with her daughter, studying the serene blue gaze that followed her wherever she sat in the room. Remembering the silky feel of those white-blond tresses. Hearing in her mind Ashley’s laughter, bright and sparkling. She longed to trace once more the smooth, pale pink skin of her daughter’s cheek, to watch her lips form a small O of surprise and delight.

It was cruel, too cruel.

Georgia stepped backward, then eased into an armchair, her eyes never leaving the portrait of her daughter, frozen in time at twenty-three. Just before she met Trent Baker.

It was too late for if-onlys. Georgia had entertained such grand plans for her daughter. She closed her eyes now and pictured the shabby shotgun house in the company mining town in which she’d grown up. She could still remember how her mother hoarded the few dollars she could cajole from Georgia’s miner father before he headed for the tavern. Georgia steeled herself against the memories of nights she went to bed cold and hungry. When she’d married Gus, his thriving construction company promised a better life and a respectable standing in the community. Because of that, Ashley could have married any number of young, attractive, professional men.

Georgia worried the arm covers of the chair with her restless fingers. So why Trent? It had made no sense. A rough-and-tumble young man, no more at home in a museum or theater than a lumberjack would be. He was handsome, she’d give him that. But she’d raised Ashley to be more discriminating than to be won over by physicality and raffish charm. A twinkle in the eye was scant measure of a man’s ability to provide and protect.

Ashley had been a delightful, tractable child. A thoughtful and affectionate teen. Nothing in her experience as Ashley’s mother had prepared Georgia for her daughter’s reaction to Trent Baker. Ashley had dug in her heels, deaf to her mother’s pleas, determined to marry the man.

Then, thanks to his carelessness, the issue had been rendered moot. Ashley was pregnant.

Not wanting to alienate her daughter, Georgia had done her best to coexist with Trent. He knew she didn’t like him and would have preferred someone else for Ashley. Only the birth of Kylie had softened her stance. He was a loving father to the child, who slowly and inexorably grabbed hold of Georgia’s heart in a way no one except her daughter ever had. Georgia could almost forgive Trent as she marveled over the exquisite little girl.

Then had come the diagnosis. Abrupt. Devastating. Terminal. Georgia lifted her eyes to the portrait, where Ashley sat poised as if to speak, a smile softening her features. What would you tell me if you could, my darling daughter?

Through the long months of Ashley’s illness, Trent had remained devoted, exhausting himself with the care of both his wife and daughter. It was as if he’d wanted to graft himself to them in a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable.

Now he was taking her granddaughter away. It would have been kinder had he taken a knife and carved out a section of her heart. This loss, on top of the other, was unbearable.

The shadows lengthened on the thick Persian rug, but Georgia was oblivious, her eyes trained on the portrait, where Ashley seemed to nod her head imperceptibly as she always had when her mother over-stepped her bounds with Trent. Whether Georgia understood it or not, Ashley had loved Trent to the end. And, in his own way, he had loved her.

How could he even think of taking Kylie and moving away?

It was when she turned her thoughts to her granddaughter that the tears began to trickle in earnest down her powdered cheeks.




CHAPTER TWO


“WEEZER!” Libby greeted the leather-skinned woman with the single silver braid of hair who was walking toward her classroom. Her legs were encased in worn jeans, her feet clad in knee-high moccasins, and around the neck of her colorful western shirt, she wore a thong of beads, stones and feathers. But it was Louise McCann’s dark eyes and wrinkle-encased smile that captivated people. A member of the Blackfeet tribe, the longtime widow owned the Kodiak Café, a Whitefish institution.

“Greetings, little one. Ready for me?”

Libby moved into the hall. “Oh my, yes. The kids can’t wait.”

“With the Christmas vacation so close, I imagine they’re more restless than usual.”

Libby rolled her eyes. “Remember that Super Bowl commercial about herding cats? You get the picture.” Grinning, she ushered Weezer into her classroom. “Trust me, you’re a godsend.”

“I’m no savior, just a storyteller.” Weezer moved to the back wall to examine the construction-paper Santa Claus figures plastered there. “Are you going home to Muskogee for Christmas?”

Home? “No. My stepfather is staying in D.C., and I’m not excited about presenting him with a holiday photo op.” Weezer turned to face her, but said nothing. Libby knew people didn’t understand why she avoided her stepfather, the Honorable Vernon G. Belton, United States senator from Oklahoma. But neither Washington, D.C., nor Muskogee, Oklahoma, had been home for a long, long time. And “Daddy” Belton, as he’d insisted she call him after he married her mother, had always been far more interested in politics than in his albatross of a stepdaughter.

“We’re having a community Christmas dinner at the café. You could pull up a chair with us.”

“Thanks, but I’ve been invited to the Traverses’.” Libby warmed at the thought. She’d spent Thanksgiving there, too, surrounded by Doug’s parents, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles. Norman Rockwell couldn’t begin to do justice to the gathering.

“I’m glad. You won’t be alone, then.”

Weezer didn’t have to complete the thought. Like you were that awful Christmas twelve years ago. Libby willed away the painful memory, then cupped her ear. “Hark! Is that the prancing and pawing of little feet?”

In trooped the second-graders, flushed from recess, and the room filled with excited chatter and the odor of damp mittens. “Weezer, will you tell us about Brother Moose?” “No, I wanna hear ’bout Winter Wolf.” The children hurriedly removed their coats and boots, then clustered around the old woman, who calmed them with one raised hand and a softly spoken, “Once, many moons past, Old Man made…”

Libby sank into her desk chair, drawn into the legend by the gentle cadence of Weezer’s voice, the expressive gestures of her hands and the sense of something ancient, unchanging and enduring. She envied the woman her roots and traditions.

What were her own legacies? Libby closed her eyes, weariness suddenly overcoming her. They didn’t bear thinking about.



TRENT ROLLED OUT of the unfamiliar bed and moved stealthily to the window. He glanced back at the other twin bed where Kylie slept, one hand curled beneath her chin, the other clutching a white plush polar bear with a red plaid neck scarf. Though it was still dark, a glaring street lamp had awakened him from a restless sleep.

The Chisholms had invited Kylie and him to spend the night of Christmas Eve with them. Holidays were for family, they had insisted. Trent could hardly refuse. As the day of their departure for Whitefish neared, his in-laws had become increasingly protective of Kylie, and while Gus maintained a stiff upper lip, Georgia, saying little, targeted Trent with accusing eyes. In fairness, he could hardly blame them. Since Ashley’s death, the two of them had grown even more attached to Kylie and she to them. He couldn’t expect jubilation when he was moving their only grandchild nearly five hundred miles across the state.

Their Christmas Eve dinner had been formal, even pretentious, complete with china, crystal and enough forks to confuse Miss Manners. Ashley’s place was conspicuously vacant, and the conversation among the three adults was forced, at best. Gus had talked business, then switched to sports until Georgia, a distressed look on her face, objected. Kylie had kept silent, picking at her food, occasionally casting worried glances at her grandmother, who addressed the girl’s nervousness by slipping her after-dinner mints.

Trent returned to his bed, lying on his back, his hands cradling his head. Gus was all right, a fair person. But Georgia’s disapproval of him had been obvious from the get-go. He was the man who had gotten her unwed daughter pregnant. The one who wasn’t worthy of Ashley, who, as Georgia had taken pains to inform him, had been destined for marriage to a white-collar professional, not a jack-of-all-trades with a limited future. Even Kylie’s birth had failed to mellow her at first, as if the baby had symbolically represented Georgia’s failed hopes for Ashley. But soon the infant had won her over, and from that time on, the challenge had been to keep her from spoiling Kylie rotten. A fussy, particular woman, intent on overcoming her humble origins, Georgia fixated on appearances, sometimes failing her granddaughter in fundamental ways, although she would vigorously have denied that assessment.

Trent turned onto his side, watching the gentle rise and fall of his daughter’s chest. She needed a warm, cuddling grandmother who smelled of cinnamon and flowers and read stories and played Pretend.

As for his own mother… Lila did her best on her infrequent visits from Las Vegas, where she worked as a cashier at a casino, but even her best was questionable. Always so busy making a living, she’d had little opportunity to exercise her maternal instincts. She had the ready laugh of a survivor, but she would never be one to sew doll clothes or bake cookies. Teaching Kylie Crazy Eights was about as good as it got.

Was this one reason he couldn’t stop thinking about Libby, the most selflessly loving person he’d ever met? She would be so good for Kylie.

He forced himself to derail that train of thought. He couldn’t imagine she would ever give him another chance. Not after what had happened.

Flopping over on his back again, he struggled to think about St. Nicholas, reindeer, even visions of sugarplums dancing in his head, whatever the hell that meant.

But all he could think of was Lib, and how she’d be good, all right. Not only for Kylie. For him.



THIS WAS A PICTURE-BOOK Christmas. Libby glanced around the living room of the Traverses’ large chalet-style home. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows was a breathtaking view of Whitefish Lake. In one corner stood a nine-foot-tall spruce, decorated from base to top with ornaments made through the years by Doug and his brother and sisters. Aromas, savory and tantalizing, wafted from the kitchen. Doug sprawled on the floor, helping his brother and nephew lay track for an electric train, while his sister Melanie’s four-year-old twin girls cuddled on either side of Libby as she read Dr. Seuss’s “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.”

Bedecked in green tights with a long red-knit sweater, Mary Travers entered the room carrying a bowl of frothy eggnog, which she set on the buffet. Smiling from one twin to the other, she addressed Libby. “You look like a natural.”

“I’ve had plenty of practice at school.”

Mary shook her head, an impish smile playing across her lips. “That’s not what I meant. You look like a mother.”

The illustration of the Whos down in Whoville blurred. “Maybe someday,” she managed to say.

Slanting her head toward Doug, Mary winked and said, “I’ll work on it. Meanwhile, after you get that mean old storybook Grinch in the Christmas spirit, come have a glass of eggnog.”

“You gonna drink eggs?” Margot, the twin dressed in green, stared up at Libby. “Yuck.”

Maddy, the more serious of the two, shook her head. “Not eggs. Nog.” The triumphant look slowly faded from her face. Finally she got up on her knees and whispered in Libby’s ear, “What’s a ‘nog’?”

Giving her a quick hug, Libby answered. “It’s what the Grinch drinks to remember how much he likes Christmas.”

Across the way, Doug caught her eye, a sappy grin on his face. “You gals make a nice picture.”

Brushing aside the implications of the compliment, Libby quickly finished the story, then moved to the buffet and helped herself to the eggnog. Doug came up beside her and put his arm around her. “Having a good time?”

“Yes, I am.” It was the truth. The easy give-and-take of this family and her overwhelming sense of welcome, especially from Mary and her adorable husband, felt heady for a woman accustomed to living alone with her cat.

“Feel like a walk before dinner?” Doug asked.

“Do we dare sneak off?”

He tightened his grip on her waist, then grinned wickedly. “Dare? I think it’s expected.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Outside the air was crisp, and the sun shone weakly through the snow-dusted trees. Doug tucked her arm through his as they started briskly down the road.

“I’m glad you’re here with us for Christmas. That’s the best present you could give me.”

“Your family has made me feel very welcome.”

“They’re crazy about you.”

Flustered, she stopped to adjust her scarf. “I, uh, I like them, too. Your sister Melanie is such fun, and your brother makes me laugh.”

“And don’t forget Izzy.”

Isabelle, Doug’s other sister, had been busy in the kitchen all day. A chef at a pricey Seattle restaurant, she was cooking the Christmas dinner. “How could I forget her?” Libby rubbed her stomach. “I’ve gained five pounds just smelling that food she’s preparing. And I haven’t even eaten.”

Doug gently held her by the lapels of her coat, his expression turning serious. “And what about me?”

“You?”

“Yeah. Do I rate as highly as my siblings?”

She fumbled to keep her answer light. “Well, you’re fun like Melanie and your brother, but as for your cooking…”

He laid his forehead against hers. “I’m not talking about cooking.” He hesitated, his breath forming small clouds in the frosty air. “I guess I’m asking…could you love me, Lib?”

His eyes were close, so rich and deep a brown they took her breath away. Could she? Love him? Suddenly, in that moment, she thought perhaps she could. “I think maybe so, Doug.”

“Good,” he murmured, pulling something from his pocket.

Libby didn’t know what she’d expected, but not the sprig of mistletoe he now held over her head.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he whispered, before tossing the mistletoe in the air and kissing her in a way that would have delighted the reformed Ebeneezer Scrooge.



AT HOME LATER that evening, Libby sat, pensive, in the rocker she’d brought from Oklahoma, the only piece of furniture she’d moved. It was the chair in which her mother had cuddled her before bedtime. Mona, a sleek gray cat with a white, diamond-shaped mask, sat in her lap, purring with contentment. The occasional crackle of a log settling and the ticking of the cuckoo clock were the only other sounds.

The perfect Christmas.

Convivial company, delicious food, laughter, plenty of hugs. It was the Christmas she’d always dreamed of—and a far cry from those girlhood holidays after her mother died. Oh, there had been no shortage of gifts. To the contrary. Everything she’d ever wanted had been provided. And that was the operative word: provided. Not given.

At that time Daddy Belton was serving in the Oklahoma legislature. His secretary bought and wrapped Libby’s presents. Christmas Eve at their Muskogee home was traditionally celebrated with a huge open house for her stepfather’s influential constituents and political allies. On Christmas Day, the two of them opened their gifts, Daddy made obligatory phone calls, and then they were served a late lunch by the housekeeper in the drafty old dining room. Libby spent Christmas afternoons alone in her bedroom.

In her youthful naiveté, she had dreamed of creating a real family, complete with a loving husband and a houseful of children. Life, however, had taught her the folly of such dreams.

She nestled Mona closer, drawing her fingers up and down the cat’s ridged back. Today had been both perfect and disturbing. It scared her how badly she wanted to be part of a family like the Traverses. This afternoon she had sensed Doug was on the verge of offering her the fulfillment of her fantasies.

Could you love me? he’d asked. She had been taken aback by the directness of his question. A marriage without love would be empty. Ruefully, she bent her head and nuzzled Mona’s neck. Had she committed herself by giving Doug a definite “maybe”? And what kind of cowardly answer was that?

On the wall, the cuckoo clock repeated its call twelve times—each syllable taunting her. She was “cuckoo,” all right. Doug hadn’t asked the one question she would ultimately have to answer.

Not could she love him, but did she love him?



WEEZER RUBBED her gnarled hands in anticipation. Dark, and still no sight of them. She checked the mantel clock. No point standing at the window fretting. She strode to the fireplace, picked up the poker and jabbed at the bottom log, sending sparks up the chimney. Trent knew how to drive in these conditions. He’d be careful. Yet what if…

Despite Trent’s eagerness to get back to Whitefish, Weezer had picked up on his concerns. Kylie’s aversion to school. Separation from her grandparents and her familiar surroundings. Beyond that, the child had to still be grieving her mother, probably struggling to mask her pain.

Trent ought to know all about that. He’d been skilled at it. From the day that worthless cowboy Charlie Baker walked out on Lila and Trent, the boy had acted as if he didn’t give a damn, practically daring the gods to zap him, be it on a skateboard, bicycle or snowboard. Then later in a two-man raft shooting rapids, or rappeling from precipitous cliffs. Whenever Lila or Weezer had asked him if he thought he was invincible, he had merely laughed and said, “A guy’s gotta have some fun.”

By now, Weezer suspected, he’d learned the hard way that life was about more than fun.

She shook her head sadly. Kylie’s mother’s illness and death had been tragic. It seemed as if every time Trent risked love, something happened to steal it from him. Or he did something to sabotage it.

Lights flared against the spruce and pine trees lining the driveway. Beside her, Scout, her German shepherd, thumped his tail, then ran to the entry hall, looking expectantly back at her. Weezer hurried to the door, fumbling with the knob—darned arthritis—then stepped out onto the porch.

When the pickup pulled to a stop, she peered through the darkness, but couldn’t see the child. Trent stepped out of the truck, a crooked smile on his face. “We made it. I hope you weren’t worried. A semi jackknifed near Lakeside, blocking the highway.”

Weezer took the porch steps carefully, then moved into Trent’s hug. “Glad you’re here safely.” She stepped back. “Now, where’s that daughter of yours?”

Trent took her hand and led her to the truck. He opened the door and pointed. Lounging against the back seat, sound asleep, was the rosy-cheeked child Weezer hadn’t seen since she was tiny.

“Poor little thing.”

Trent sighed. “It’s been a long day.”

Just then, Scout threaded his way between them and climbed into the back seat.

“Scout!” Before Weezer could restrain him, he stood over Kylie, gently licking the girl’s face.

Kylie’s eyes fluttered opened. “D-Daddy?”

“Don’t be frightened, honey. It’s just Scout.”

Rubbing her eyes, Kylie sat up straighter. “A dog? I love dogs.” She wrapped her arms around Scout’s neck.

Weezer nodded sagely. “I think your little girl has made her first friend in Whitefish.”

Through dinner and unpacking, Kylie never let Scout out of her sight. Although the child didn’t say much, she seemed to keenly observe her surroundings.

Finally, after Trent had unloaded the truck and seen to Kylie’s bath, the three of them settled in the guest cabin’s living room for hot chocolate. In her footed flannel pajamas, Kylie curled up on the sofa with Scout. She seemed overcome with shyness, but finally, she turned to Weezer. “Is this a real log cabin like Little House in the Big Woods?”

“Well, we have more modern conveniences than Mary and Laura Ingalls did, but, yes, little one, this is as real as it gets.”

“Good,” Kylie said. “I can pretend I’m Laura. Or Mary.”

It was an innocent enough remark, but Weezer felt a chill pass through her. Would Kylie deal with her problems by retreating to a make-believe world the same way Trent had lost himself in derring-do?

“It’s about time for bed, sugar,” Trent said. “I can’t wait to show you this beautiful place in the daytime.” He set down his mug and held out his arms.

“How about a good-night hug?”

Kylie nudged Scout’s head from her lap and joined Trent in the big recliner. Lacing her fingers together, she gazed up at him, then said softly, “I’m trying not to be scared, Daddy.”

“I know. It’s natural for things to seem strange at first. But you’ll soon feel at home.” He wrapped his arms protectively around his daughter.

The love on his face, commingled with sadness and concern, tore Weezer’s heart. But then came Kylie’s response, plaintive and wistful, and Weezer had to turn away so neither father nor daughter would see the tears gathering in her eyes.

“Please, Daddy,” the child whispered, “be happy.”



ALTHOUGH THE HOLDIAY break had been more than welcome after a challenging first semester, Libby was glad to get back to her second-graders. To settle them on this first day of class, she’d put them to work making models of trains, boats, planes or any other form of transportation out of old cereal boxes, empty toilet-paper rolls and assorted odds and ends from her crafts bin. Now, as she helped Rory pour glue onto a Popsicle stick, she concluded she must have lost her mind. This was not a good idea. No sooner would she assist one child, than another would call out, “Miz Cameron, help!” She needed the legs of a centipede and the wits of Machiavelli.

“It’s ruined.” Behind her, ginger-haired Lacey Ford began to cry. “He did it!” The girl pointed her finger directly at Bart Ames, the class bully, who stood with his arms folded over his chest in imitation of a superhero.

“Did not!” Bart shouted. “It was just a stupid ole submarine.”

Libby mentally counted to five—ten was clearly out of the question—and took hold of Bart’s arm, directing him to a chair at the reading table. Then she returned to Lacey, who was in dire need of a tissue. “Calm down, honey, and tell me what happened.”

After Lacey told her story, Libby joined the sullen-face boy and squatted beside him. “Did you smash her submarine?”

Bart looked up at the ceiling, then shrugged. “Didn’t mean to.”

“What do you think you should do now?”

Another shrug.

“How would you feel if someone destroyed your helicopter?”

“Mad.”

“Do you think you could tell Lacey you’re sorry, and that you’ll help her build another sub?”

The boy’s hands moved nervously over his corduroy-clad knees, belying his tough-guy exterior. “I guess.”

Libby patted him on the shoulder. “Scoot, then.”

She remained hunkered down, trying to take a little breather. Then she heard the classroom door open, and out of the corner of her eye she spotted three sets of feet—Mary Travers’s Birkenstocks, a pair of scuffed cowboy boots and a small pair of white tennis shoes laced with pink. Please, she implored the patron saint of elementary-school teachers, not another new student.

“Miss Cameron?” Mary’s voice carried across the room. “I’d like you to meet someone.”

As she swiveled around, Libby took in the slightly built girl with downcast eyes and shoulder-length straight blond hair. Immediately she reprimanded herself for her insensitivity. The poor kid was practically shaking with fear. The class had quieted of its own accord, intently scrutinizing “the new girl.”

Libby rose to her feet to meet the girl’s father and welcome the child to her class. But as her eyes traveled up the long, muscled legs, past the tapered waist to the broad shoulders, her heart caught in her throat. It couldn’t be. And then the face, each contour so familiar that her fingers twitched to touch the closely shaven skin once more. Her gaze took in his sensual lips, crooked nose, thick eyebrows and curly sand-blond hair, and then she could no longer put off the inevitable. She had to look into those intoxicating deep blue eyes. “Trent,” she said, stumbling against the reading table.

He took a step forward, then stopped. “Libby.” The one-word acknowledgment halted time.

For a moment the walls blurred in a kaleidoscope of primary colors. Then, to Libby’s great relief, Mary bridged the awkwardness by taking the girl by the shoulders and urging her toward Libby. “Kylie, this is your new teacher, Miss Cameron.”

Struggling to ignore the cascade of emotions that threatened to drain her of all sense, Libby approached the child. “Kylie, what a lovely name. Welcome to second grade.” She put her arm around the girl’s thin shoulders and turned her to face the class. “Boys and girls, isn’t this exciting? It’s a new year and we have a new student. Could you say hello to Kylie?”

The girl blushed painfully as the chorus of voices greeted her. “Hello, Kylie.”

Mary handed Libby Kylie’s transfer-student folder, then smiled from Trent to Libby. “I gather you two know each other?”

With effort, Libby forced herself to look at Trent again. The features were all there, just as she remembered them. Yet sadness weighed down his eyes, and the worry lines and Norse-blond hair, now darker with the passage of time, made a stranger of the happy-go-lucky man who had once been her husband.

“Yes, we knew each other,” Libby said. “A long time ago.”

“Good, then. Shall we leave now, Mr. Baker?”

Mary turned to go, but Trent stood his ground, his eyes never wavering from Libby’s. His voice caught.

“Take good care of her, Lib.”

Libby wanted to look away, to be anyplace but here, doing anything but this. “I will,” she said quietly.

They left the room, and when Libby caught up a tissue for Lacey, she also took one for herself.



TRENT SLUMPED BACK against the leather seat of his truck. Of all the crazy things! He’d known Libby was teaching in the area, but what were the odds of her being in the same school—the same grade—where Kylie was enrolled? Last he’d heard she was the kindergarten teacher in Polson, at the far end of Flathead Lake.

Not that he’d heard much about her in recent years. After their divorce, he’d gotten out of Dodge and made a new life for himself in Billings. Weezer and Chad had known better than to mention Libby. When he’d left northwest Montana, he’d erased that slate. Or so he’d thought.

Miss Cameron? It sounded somehow like a missed chord. He’d known she’d taken back her maiden name, but still… Hearing it like that hurt.

On some level, he’d anticipated that returning to Whitefish would resurrect old memories, but seeing her today had knocked him for a loop. Just like that first time he’d clapped eyes on her coming out of the administration building at Montana State. When he was a little kid, his mom had taken him to see Disney’s Snow White, so when he’d spotted Libby walking toward him across the campus, all he could think was that here, in the flesh, was his own personal Snow White—the same dark, wavy hair, high color in her cheeks, rosebud lips. The only difference was that Libby had sparkling blue eyes instead of brown.

He blew out a puff of air. Hell, she wasn’t older, she was better. The same trim figure, but now with more generous, womanly curves. When she’d smiled at Kylie, he’d had to force himself not to reach out to touch her.

Pull yourself together, Baker. The woman was going to be Kylie’s teacher. He was grateful for that. If anybody could ease Kylie through this transition, it would be Lib. His own confused emotional state was a small price to pay.

Checking his watch, he started the truck. He would be late meeting Chad at the bank. However, as he drove the familiar streets, his thoughts were far from business loans. He could fantasize all he wanted about getting back together with Libby, about providing Kylie with a loving stepmother. But that’s all it could ever be. Fantasy.

Libby would never forgive him. Hell, he’d had a tough enough time trying to forgive himself. He’d been a complete asshole.

And if she did?

Things would have to be very different. He would have to be different.

And yet?

He thought about Ashley and those last few days when he’d sat by her bedside holding her hand. And the important things they’d had just enough time to say to each other.

He knew one heckuva lot more about love now. And loss. Especially loss.



TRENT? Here in Whitefish? Nothing could have prepared her for the onslaught of emotions, everything from shock, grief and anger to joy, hope and confusion. And of course regret. Somehow Libby pulled herself together enough to settle little Kylie. She paired her with Lacey, who seemed pleased to be singled out to help and relieved that Kylie, not Bart, was now assigned to help repair the damaged submarine. Kylie, however, sat mute, turning the glue stick over and over in her hand.

She blushed furiously when Bart pulled on her hair and said, “Hey, new girl, where’d you come from?”

She didn’t look at him, but merely whispered, “Billings.”

“You prob’ly don’t even know how to ski,” the boy scoffed.

“Kylie will learn,” Libby said, deftly steering him to his seat.

Then it was time to put away the craft projects. Amid the clatter of drawers and bins opening and closing, Libby had a moment to study Kylie. She had Trent’s square face and generous mouth, but the hair must be her mother’s. Trent’s was curly. A hitch caught in her chest. She remembered the springy feel of those curls that refused to be tamed. When the bell for recess rang, Libby felt relieved. She didn’t want to think too much about what Kylie looked like. Whom she resembled. Whose child she could have been…

Libby threw on her coat. Stop it! But the unfairness burned in her throat like bitter medicine.

On the playground, the girls headed for the swings while the boys clustered around a soccer ball, dividing up into teams. Kylie, however, stood just outside the door, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her pink-flowered parka. Every so often, her eyes darted around the playground before settling back on her boots. Weezer had told Libby that Trent’s wife had died within the last year. Her heart went out to Kylie Baker. Libby understood what it was like to lose a mother, to have the idyllic world of childhood shattered, replaced by emptiness and uncertainty.

Libby approached Kylie. “Did Lacey invite you to play with the girls?”

“Yeah. But I don’t want to.”

The thrust of the child’s chin was hauntingly familiar. “Why not?”

Kylie merely shrugged.

Libby put her arm around the child. “It’s hard being new, isn’t it?”

The answer was a sniffle.

Pulling her closer, Libby said, “Moving involves lots of changes. Everything seems unfamiliar, I’ll bet. We all want to help you, though. Will you let us?”

When Kylie turned her face into Libby’s coat, Libby could feel her shoulders shaking with sobs she didn’t want her classmates to observe. Digging out a tissue, Libby knelt with her back to the playground, shielding the girl from view. “Here, sweetie.” She handed her the tissue.

“That’s what—” sniff, sniff “—my daddy calls me sometimes.”

“Daddys are nice that way.”

“I guess. But I don’t have a mommy.”

“You miss her a lot, I imagine.”

Eyes streaming, she nodded vigorously.

Libby helped dry her tears, then stood. When Kylie shyly slipped her hand into Libby’s, a satisfying warmth traveled through her. This little girl was so desperate for love. But she was Trent’s daughter. Libby mustn’t get too involved.

“Can I tell you something?” Kylie said, adoration in every feature.

“Certainly.”

The little girl gripped Libby’s hand more tightly. “I think you’re beautiful, Miss Cameron.”

“Thank you, Kylie.” Libby blinked furiously, blaming the cold wind when she knew darn well why she was really in danger of blubbering.

Throughout recess, Kylie remained by her side. Libby drew her out about the move and learned that Trent and his daughter were living at Weezer’s, and that Kylie loved dogs and Barbie dolls. Libby told her about Mona, inviting her to come see the cat someday, then reassured her that she would learn to ski in no time. But it was the girl’s answer to her final question that lanced the emotional scar Libby had thought was forever sealed. “Why did you move to Whitefish, Kylie?”

The wistfulness of the whispered reply explained everything. “So my daddy could be happy.”

Of course. Wasn’t that just like the Trent she’d been married to? His happiness, his comfort. That was all that mattered.




CHAPTER THREE


BY THE LAST PERIOD, Kylie seemed slightly more relaxed. She still avoided contact with most of the other children, and even when they found something uproariously funny, she remained glum, detached.

Libby dreaded the end of the day when she’d have to usher the children to the buses and carpools. It would be impossible to avoid Trent, so she’d better get used to the idea of seeing him. Well, she could do that. After all, she had her own life, which included a job she loved, a budding relationship with Doug and a host of friends. The only thing lacking was children. She loved each and every one of her second-graders, but someday, before it was too late, she wanted her own child with a longing that was almost visceral. Maybe it would happen. Doug was perfect father material.

She lined up the children, then led them to the circle driveway in front of the school. After directing the bus riders to the appropriate vehicles, she stood with the remaining children as cars, trucks and SUVs pulled into the pick-up area. And then, there he was, his forehead creased with concern. Libby took Kylie by the hand and helped her into the back seat of his truck. “Did you have a good day?” Trent asked uncertainly.

Kylie shrugged. “Miss Cameron has a cat named Mona.”

Trent looked puzzled by the abrupt change of subject. “She does?”

“She said I could meet her someday. Can I, Daddy? Soon?”

When Trent looked helplessly at Libby, she inwardly berated herself for ever having made the suggestion. Yet much as she wanted to retract her ill-considered invitation, she couldn’t ignore the happily expectant expression on Kylie’s face. “Perhaps you could bring Kylie by the house sometime.”

“How about tonight?” Trent asked, his eyes silently beseeching her. “Kylie could use a friend named Mona.”

“Trent, I…”

“How do you know Miss Cameron, Daddy?”

“Um…”

Determined to avoid discussion of that topic, Libby jumped in. “Tonight would be fine.”

“What if we bring a big pizza and come around six?”

How had this gotten out of hand so fast? Libby’s stomach buzzed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Please, Lib.”

After one glance at Kylie’s dancing eyes, Libby reluctantly gave Trent her address, then stepped back, closing the door gently.

Damn. How had he worked his way with her already? Using Kylie, that’s how. Poor kid. Innocently stuck in the middle of a situation that could only go from awkward to hostile. One pizza. One cat meeting. That was it!

Back inside, she sat at her desk studying Kylie’s transfer file. Both achievement records and teacher comments had become increasingly negative over the past year. In early reports Kylie was described as a bright, sunny child by the first-grade teacher, but later comments suggested apathy and unhappiness. Then there were the principal’s remarks, which revealed a recent history of aversion to school. Libby closed the folder, then sat back, staring out the window. What in the world had Trent been thinking? There couldn’t have been a worse time to move Kylie.

But when had Trent ever been known to think about others first? He was all about fun and frivolity, not responsibility. Oh, he was charming, all right. She had to give him that. The heady first months of their marriage had been a whirlwind of laughter and new experiences—not to mention the sex, which had been phenomenal. But Trent had never been cut out to be a husband. At least, not hers.

When, at last, Libby flipped off the lights to her classroom and started down the hall toward the parking lot, Mary stepped out of the office. “How did it go with Kylie Baker today?”

Libby held out her hand, palm down, and waggled it. “Given her history, it could’ve been worse.”

Mary nodded sagely. “Poor little tyke. She’s having to deal with an awful lot. That’s one reason I placed her in your class instead of John’s. She desperately needs a woman’s touch. John is a good teacher, but not the one for Kylie right now.”

If Libby had been given a choice in the matter, would she have accepted Kylie in her class? She chided herself. It was Kylie’s welfare that was important, not hers or Trent’s. “She’s very lonely.”

“I know. With time, we’ll fix that. I have every confidence in you.”

Libby prayed that confidence wasn’t misplaced.

“By the way,” Mary continued, “how are you and Trent Baker acquainted?”

It was all Libby could do not to flinch. But the question was not only natural, it was inevitable. Mary knew she had been married before and had resumed her maiden name, but Libby had never found it necessary to go into detail, even with Doug. That chapter of her life was closed. Or so she had thought. “He’s my ex-husband.”

“Oh.” The syllable dropped into the silence like a stone in a deep well. Libby could almost see the wheels turning as Mary processed the information and its implications.

“We haven’t been in touch since the divorce.”

Recovering quickly, the principal laid a hand on Libby’s shoulder. “Dear, if this will be awkward for you, having Kylie in your class…” She trailed off, the alternative obvious.

The offer was tempting. At least then, Trent would be one step removed from her.

But there was Kylie to consider.

Like it or not, the child had tapped into the main reason Libby was a teacher. Love.

“Thank you, Mary, but I agree with what you said earlier. I think Kylie needs me.”

Libby fervently hoped she was being honest with herself, and that a student’s welfare was her only consideration for keeping Trent’s daughter in her class.



WEEZER WATCHED TRENT and Kylie stomp snow off their boots before they entered her cabin. Kylie immediately looked around. “Hi, Weezer. Where’s Scout?”

“In the kitchen,” Weezer told her, ruffling the girl’s hair. “You two ready for some fresh-baked cookies?”

Trent removed his coat, then took Kylie’s. “You bet.”

Kylie followed Weezer into the kitchen. There by the woodstove lay Scout, fast asleep.

“He’s not much of a watchdog, is he?” Weezer said. “Otherwise he’d have known you were here.” She nudged the dog with her foot. “Wake up, sleepy-head, and let’s hear about Kylie’s school day.”

Trent lounged against the doorjamb, an inscrutable expression on his face. “Go on, sugar. Tell Weezer and Scout all about it.”

Kylie sat down beside Scout, scratching his ears. “The kids were mean.”

Ignoring her uncooperative knees, Weezer knelt on the floor beside the girl. “Tell me about it.”

Slowly Kylie began. “This one boy made fun of me. He said I didn’t know how to ski.”

Weezer nodded. “We can do something about that.”

“And the girls all ran off at recess.”

“Did they invite you to join them?”

Kylie concentrated on burrowing her hands deep in Scout’s fur.

“Kylie? Weezer asked you a question.”

“Uh, yeah.”

Weezer made a show of examining the dog’s paw. “Why didn’t you play with them?”

“I don’t know them.”

“But—” Trent began.

Holding up her hand, Weezer forestalled him. “Let me ask a question. How will you ever get to know them if you don’t give them a chance?”

Kylie’s cheeks reddened. “I dunno.”

Weezer let that sink in before continuing. “If you think really hard about it, I bet you can come up with one or two bright spots in your day.”

“Well, maybe.” Kylie sat back, deep in thought.

“Lacey was okay, I guess.”

“What about your teacher?”

“Oh, she’s so pretty, and really, really nice.”

“See? There’s a big plus. What’s her name?”

“Miss Cameron. And we’re going over there tonight for pizza and she has this cat named Mona and she invited us.”

Startled, Weezer glanced up at Trent, who shrugged helplessly. What in the world was going on? Trent and Libby’s divorce, though mutually agreed upon, had been far from amicable. So far as Weezer knew, the two hadn’t had any contact in years.

Finally Trent spoke. “What was I to do? My daughter wanted to meet Mona.”

“Miss Cameron says she’s a beautiful gray cat. I’m so excited.”

At least the child was showing enthusiasm for something, a vast improvement from the beginning of this conversation. But Trent had moved to a kitchen chair and sat tensed like a cougar waiting to pounce.

Weezer seized on a diversionary tactic. “Kylie, why don’t you help yourself to a couple of cookies, put on your coat and boots and take Scout outside to play.”

“Can I?” The girl leaped to her feet, grabbed two snickerdoodles and her parka and headed for the door.

“C’mon, Scout.” Tail wagging, the dog joined her, and the two of them exited in a gust of frigid air.

Weezer pulled two cups from the cupboard, then poured coffee. When she placed Trent’s in front of him, she tilted his chin. “Out with it. What’s this all about?”

He brushed a hand through his hair. “Damned if I know.”

“Dinner? Pizza? I practically raised you, boy. I think you do know.” She sank into the chair across from him.

“I wasn’t aware Lib taught in Whitefish.”

“You could’ve asked me. But you made it clear a long time ago that she was off-limits in our conversations.”

“When I left for Billings, I never intended to return. I was happy with Ashley.” His voice sounded tortured.

“I know you were. But you were running, too. When you do that, the past has a way of circling and nipping you in the behind.”

He stared into the depths of his coffee. “Tell me about it.”

“So how come the meeting tonight?”

He sighed. “Kylie.” Weezer waited for him to continue. “It’s the most excited she’s been since I decided to move here. I don’t know, the bit about the pizza just popped out of my mouth.”

“You’re sure this is only about Kylie?”

Trent slumped back in his chair. “No.”

“I see.” Weezer stalled by taking a sip from her cup. “Be very careful, son. You and Kylie don’t need any more hurt and disappointment.”

“Neither does Lib.”

“Good. I hope you remember that.”

“It’ll be just this once.”

Just this once? Weezer doubted it. Even when he was a youngster, Trent’s expressions had been transparent. And right now what she saw on his face was longing, pure and simple.



LIBBY RESISTED changing her clothes. She didn’t want to give Trent the impression that anything special was going on. In fact, part of her didn’t want him to step foot in her home. After their divorce, she had sold or given away the few belongings they’d owned jointly and had haunted antique shops and estate sales, gradually accumulating enough to furnish her modest house. She loved the wood grain of her oak coffee table, the high back of the armchair, the prints of native flora on the wall, the faded Persian rug she’d bid too much for at an auction. The place wasn’t fancy, but it was hers. Her sanctuary.

Trent’s presence here would feel invasive.

Furthermore, she was having difficulty picturing Trent as a single father. He’d never shown the slightest interest in parenthood. Instead, he’d always laughed and said, “Hell, Lib, I’d be a lousy father.” His rationalization was that since his own father had walked out on him when he was four, he’d had no role model. He’d then go on to say by way of justification, “A baby deserves a daddy who knows a little something.”

Hindsight suggested he’d been right.

Oh, why had she ever agreed to let them come?

Yet even as she asked the question, she continued laying her silverware and colorful plates on the sunshine-yellow tablecloth.

How could she have let Kylie tug at her heartstrings like that? Was it because she was Trent’s daughter—the child they’d never had together? Or was it because Libby was motherless, too, and identified with the little girl. Seeing Kylie reminded her so powerfully of the day she herself had come home from school to the news her mother would never return from the hospital.

Libby needed to be on her guard to keep this relationship professional. She was a teacher extending kindness to an emotionally needy student. Her previous relationship with the girl’s father was irrelevant.

Just get through this evening.

Precisely at six, she heard a vehicle pull into the driveway, then doors slam. She stood, smoothing her skirt, willing indifference. “Hello,” she said holding the door open. “Smells good,” she mumbled as Trent stepped by her with the pizza box, trailing a scent of tomato sauce and oregano. “Let me take your coats.”

Kylie quickly shrugged out of hers, then Trent handed Libby his parka. “I imagine you’re eager to meet Mona,” Libby said as she hung their coats in the hall closet.

“I can’t wait!” Kylie cried, bouncing on her toes.

“Cats aren’t as friendly right away as dogs are, you know. It takes them a while to warm up to strangers.”

“Weezer told me that. She said I have to be patient. Let Mona come to me.”

“That’s good advice.”

Libby was marginally okay so long as she was dealing with Kylie, but then she made the mistake of glancing up. Trent stood silhouetted against the fireplace, looking far too handsome in formfitting jeans and a Black Watch plaid flannel shirt and a yellow turtleneck. He held up the box. “The pizza?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Here, let me take it.” Kylie had already climbed into the big chair and sat, a forefinger to her lips, quietly awaiting the elusive Mona. Trent followed Libby into the kitchen. “Nice place,” he murmured.

“It’s home,” she said, setting the box on the counter near the oven. “Should we heat this up yet?”

“Kylie won’t eat a thing until she meets Mona. Let’s wait a few minutes.”

“Uh, would you like a beer? Wine? Scotch?” This was nuts! Libby knew he never drank anything but beer.

“Beer will be fine.”

As a teacher, she didn’t think it was appropriate to drink in front of Kylie, so after handing him a beer, she selected a soda for herself.

He nodded at the pop can. “You’re not joining me?”

Not now. Not ever. “No.” She peered around him into the living room. “Look.”

They both moved to the doorway. He was standing too close, his body only inches from hers.

“God, she looks so happy,” he said huskily.

Kylie sat, dwarfed by the big chair, while a contented Mona kneaded the girl’s chest with her paws. Oblivious to her audience, Kylie was whispering something in the cat’s ear.

Trent raised his beer bottle and nodded at Libby. “Thanks. I hope this visit isn’t too awkward for you.”

Too awkward? It was nothing short of bizarre. “I’m doing this for Kylie.”

“I know.”

“Daddy, isn’t Mona pretty?”

“She sure is.”

“We’re getting acquainted. You guys can go back to the kitchen.”

Trent grinned down at Libby. “Sounds like we’ve been dismissed.”

“Suits me. I need to preheat the oven anyway.”

In the kitchen, Trent pulled one of the chairs out from the table and straddled it, leaning his arms across the back. Just as he used to do. Libby bit her lip at that last thought. She didn’t welcome these reminders. Instead, she needed to focus on getting through the evening. “What brought you back to Whitefish?”

Fortunately his explanation about going into business with Chad Larraby permitted her to warm the pizza and toss the salad she’d made earlier, keeping her so busy she almost succeeded in ignoring the way his voice brightened with enthusiasm and his eyes following her every move. When he finished with an explanation of their upcoming season’s advertising campaign, he asked her about herself.

She gave him the short version. She’d gotten her first job in Polson, where they’d lived at the time of the divorce, and completed her master’s degree in the summers. She’d moved to Whitefish three years ago.

There was nothing easy about the conversation. She walked around the kitchen, making busywork. Fixing glasses of ice water, grating the Parmesan cheese, digging out a platter for the pizza, anything to delay sitting down across the table from her ex-husband. But there was one question that had to be faced. “Have you told Kylie we were married?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “No. It’s too early.”

“What do you mean?”

His eyes displayed anguish. “She’s had so much to deal with. Ashley’s death—and the move. She likes you. I don’t want to do anything right now to rock her boat.”

“She’ll have to know sometime.”

“Please, Lib, just not yet. Let her settle in first.”

Libby wasn’t sure withholding the information was a good idea, but Trent was the girl’s father and presumably knew her better than anyone.

“You’re the parent. I’ll abide by your wishes.”

He nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

In the awkward silence that followed, she busied herself at the counter.

Just before the oven buzzer went off, Kylie appeared, the large cat draped over her shoulder. “Miss Cameron, I think Mona likes me.”

Libby smiled. “No doubt about it. She doesn’t let very many people pick her up.”

“Can she eat with us?”

Trent laughed. “Do you think cats like pepperoni?”

“Oh, Daddy, you’re funny. I mean, can she sit on my lap while I eat?”

Trent caught Libby’s eye and she nodded. “Just don’t use her as a napkin,” he said.

To Libby’s amazement, Mona remained in Kylie’s lap while they ate, only occasionally pawing the tablecloth as if to say, “How about me?”

“Good salad,” Trent said appreciatively.

“Thank you.”

Kylie ate with gusto. “This is the best pizza.”

Trent picked up his napkin and wiped the corner of his daughter’s mouth. “Whitefish’s finest.”

“Whitefish. I hate that name.” A shadow fell across Kylie’s face. “Do I have to go to school tomorrow?”

“Of course. You know that.” Trent shared a look of concern with Libby.

Kylie said nothing, but pushed her plate away.

“I’d be disappointed if you weren’t in my class,” Libby told her.

Kylie’s eyes filled with tears.

“What is it, honey?” she asked, leaning forward.

Sensing the tension in the girl, Mona wagged her tail slowly from side to side. “They’ll laugh,” Kylie confided.

“Who?”

“The kids.”

Libby stole a quick glance at Trent, whose expression was anguished. “Why?”

“Be-be-cause.” Silently, tears oozed down the little girl’s cheeks. “I…I’ll have to read.”

Libby’s stomach plummeted. Bless her heart, the poor thing was terrified. “I’ll be sure they don’t laugh. Don’t you like to read?”

“I used to.”

“When was that?”

“Before Mommy went to the cementery.”

Trent turned his head away and Libby picked up the girl’s hands. “Honey, did you read to your mommy?”

“Yes.”

“And was she proud of you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you think she’d want you to give up?”

Kylie swiped an arm across her nose. “No,” she said in a little voice.

“I have an idea. Can you come to school early tomorrow?”

Trent nodded quickly.

“I guess,” Kylie said.

Praying her idea would work, Libby grasped Kylie’s hands even tighter. “We’ll practice reading together before the other children come—just the way you used to read to your mommy. Could you do that?”

In the silence that followed, Mona jumped from Kylie’s lap onto the table and began sniffing at the leftover crust. Libby never took her eyes from Kylie’s. Trent scooped up the cat.

Finally the girl spoke. “I think so. I don’t have a mommy now, but if I ever get a new one, I want her to be just like you, Miss Cameron.”

Libby caught Kylie to her in a hug she wished would last forever. She didn’t dare examine her feelings—or look at Trent.

Setting Mona on the floor, Trent stood, clearing his throat. “I’ll have her there at seven-thirty.”

“Daddy, do we have to leave?”

“Sure do, sweetie. I need to get you to bed if you’re going to be bright-eyed at the crack of dawn. What do you say to Miss Cameron?”

“Thank you for letting us come, and ’specially for Mona. She’s a super cat.”

“Why don’t you tell her goodbye while I get your coats?”

Kylie dashed off to the living room, where Mona had scampered. Libby moved quickly to the closet, extracting their parkas. When she turned around, Trent laid a hand on her shoulder. “You’re great with her, Lib. I appreciate that.”

“She’s easy to like.”

“I, uh…” He paused, his eyes clouded. “I know this probably isn’t the time or place, but here goes. I’m sorry for the pain I caused you back…well, you know when. I wasn’t there for you the way I should’ve been. I said some terrible things.”

Libby’s knees shook and she felt hollow inside. “What’s done is done. We’ve both moved on.” She was pretty sure he wanted her to tell him she’d forgiven him, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she said, “I’ll take good care of Kylie.”

“I know you will.” He was staring at her with an intensity that aroused feelings she was reluctant to identify, then finally turned away. “Kylie, time to leave.”

After they’d left, Libby couldn’t move. Rooted to the spot, resting her forehead against the closed door, she thought she might be sick. Sorry? He’d said he was sorry? Was he seeking forgiveness now? Damn him!

Entwining her arms around her abdomen, she finally made it to the rocking chair, knowing that nothing—nothing at all—could salve the wound he’d opened up.

She couldn’t have said how long she sat there. It might have been mere minutes—or hours. The repetitive to-and-fro of the rocker failed to soothe her. She was way beyond soothing.

She should have been rocking a baby. His baby.

Impelled by a force beyond herself, she rose and moved toward her bedroom, knowing on the one hand the act was masochistic, but on the other, inevitable. She knelt on the braided wool rug, her heartbeat a mournful thud, then, with trembling hands, raised the lid of the cedar chest. The aromatic fragrance nearly gagged her.

She could stop now. She didn’t have to do this. But instinct was deaf to reason. Burrowing beneath sheets, tablecloths and out-of-season clothing, she found the hardcover volume, long buried.

Blind, futile rage enveloped her as she wrested the book from the depths of the cedar chest, oblivious to the disorder left behind.

By the soft light of the bedside lamp, she forced herself to read the title that her fingers involuntarily traced. “My Baby Book.”

Clasping this journal of dashed hopes to her chest, she carried it to the bed, where she perched on the edge like a sleepwalker recently aroused. She flipped to one of the first pages, filled with her own handwriting. “How Mommy Told Daddy About Me.” Then, “Mommy’s First Visit to the Doctor.” And finally to the stark white, blank pages—screaming loss—after “Mommy’s Third Month.”

Her throat worked in spasms but she refused to cry. She had shed enough tears to last a lifetime, and they had changed nothing.

How dare Trent reenter her life? How dare he bring that precious, beautiful daughter of his to break her heart? And how could her body have betrayed her? Good Lord, for a brief moment this evening, she’d been aware of him in an intimate, sensual way.

She stared at the book in her lap, knowing that from this moment on, it would serve as a potent reminder. Trent was no part of her life. He had long ago given up any claim on her.

He had never understood how she felt. He’d even been cavalier. To him it was “just a miscarriage.” To her, a loss beyond bearing.

Now he had his child. She had no one.

For him, it had been a simple matter. She would never forget his words that awful day when she couldn’t stop sobbing, when nothing could stanch her pain and grief. “It’s not the end of the world, Lib. We can always have another baby.”

No, he hadn’t been there for her. That same day, love died.




CHAPTER FOUR


TRAPPED IN AN UNDERTOW of guilt, Trent concentrated on his driving, focusing on every intersection, each curve in the road.

“Daddy, did you see how Mona curled up in my lap? She has the softest fur and I love petting her. ’Course, I love Scout. Dogs are my favorites, but cats are…”

Kylie had jabbered nonstop ever since they left Libby’s. His role, limited to nodding occasionally or muttering a well-timed “Uh-huh,” left him too much time to think. To remember.

Libby’s euphoria when the home pregnancy test had turned up positive. The way she had welcomed morning sickness as a harbinger of the new life within her. Her ecstatic plans for turning their tiny second bedroom into a colorful nursery. How nearly every conversation had revolved around possible baby names.

That wasn’t all he remembered.

With a shame that tightened his stomach, he also recalled his own panic.

A baby? No way was he prepared—not financially and certainly not emotionally. He was a young man, for cripe’s sake, enjoying his free lifestyle. On a whim he could jump in his truck and take off with his buddies to follow the snow or fish a hot section of the river. Then when he got home? Libby would listen to his adventures, laugh at the appropriate moments and applaud his feats. And at night? Sex that made his blood boil just thinking about it.

He had felt that he was being cheated. A baby would spoil everything. He wasn’t ready. This couldn’t be happening. Libby wanted him to share her excitement, but somehow he could never wrap his mind around the concept of late-night feedings and dirty diapers. It was more fun to escape to the nearest tavern or gather his friends for a poker game.

Yeah, he wasn’t proud of his reaction to Libby’s pregnancy. After the divorce and his move to Billings, he’d had plenty of time to reflect—and to grow up. Then he’d met Ashley and once again been faced with the prospect of fatherhood. This time he had promised himself things would be different. He would be a loving and responsible parent.

“Daddy, I’m scared.” Kylie’s last words penetrated his thoughts. “About tomorrow.”

“The reading?”

“I, uh, I’m not very good.”

“You used to be.”

“That was before…”

She didn’t have to complete the thought. Before Ashley died. “Yes, but you can be again. Especially with Miss Cameron’s help.”

Kylie’s fear and doubt came out in her voice. “Maybe.”

“You like her, don’t you?”

“Yes.” She was silent a moment, then, with hushed awe, she added her final thought, which totally undid him. “She’s wonderful, Daddy.”

Oh, God, what if he’d never had Kylie? Never known the awesome feeling of cradling his daughter in his arms? Libby had every right to hold him in contempt. How could he ever have considered a baby an inconvenience? A burden? His daughter had been the only thing keeping him from going over the edge after Ashley died.

His heart felt heavy. How friggin’ lame was the apology he’d offered Libby tonight? She should’ve thrown him out of the house. Yet despite her far-from-cordial feelings toward him, she’d embraced his daughter, offering her the affection and approval she so desperately needed. Libby was obviously a more sensitive human being than he had been.

But could she forgive?

In light of the past, it seemed a huge thing to hope for. But he was going to continue asking. Begging if necessary.




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