Libby couldn’t decide if he was ruggedly handsome or simply imposing in a very male way. He did make her pulse race, but then, that just might be her body trying to warm itself up.
Libby decided to give her attention to Robbie.
But Robbie was looking at his father. “See, Papa. She’s already making you smile. And you laughed at the pond.”
Libby looked back at the giant, who had lifted one brow at his son. “Aye. She did make me laugh,” he agreed. He shot Libby a grin. “She’s the smallest fish we’ve pulled from that pond all year.”
Libby snapped her gaze down to her lap, brushing her wet clothes as she felt heat climb back to her face. Oh, he was a nasty man, making fun of her size.
“Do ya think we should throw her back and let her grow a bit more?” the older MacBain continued, humor lacing every word.
“No, Papa. I want to keep her.”
Libby reached up to push one of her short, damp curls behind her ear.
“Well, Papa? Can I keep her?” Robbie asked.
“You’re a jewelry maker?” the older MacBain asked.
Libby dismissed his question with an absent nod and directed her own question at Robbie. “Does your papa have a name?”
Robbie grinned at her. “Aye. It’s Michael.”
Libby snapped her gaze to Michael MacBain. Surely this man had nothing in common with that great angel. But then again, maybeMichael did fit. The archangel he was named for must be large and powerful and ferocious-looking if he was capable of defending Heaven.
Michael MacBain looked capable enough.
“What happened to your hair?” Robbie asked. “Did you have a terrible fright when you were young that turned some of it white?”
Libby reached up to touch the white streak of hair over her forehead and smiled. “No, I didn’t have a fright. I was born with it that way.”
Libby noticed that Robbie leaned forward in interest and that Michael MacBain leaned back in…well, in suspicion. She considered both of their reactions rude but refrained from saying so.
Libby let her hand trail down from her hair to rest on a bump on the left side of her forehead. It felt as large as a goose egg and made her head throb when she touched it.
“Can you tell me if ya’re hurt anywhere else?” Michael asked with a grin that made him look more devilish than angelic. “I noticed your knee appears to be swollen,” he said, looking down at her wet trousers clinging to an obviously swollen knee.
Her knee did feel swollen and hurt when she tried to bend it. She must have hit it on the dash when her car slammed into the water. Her left shoulder and chest felt bruised—from the seat belt, most likely. But other than a few bumps and a pounding headache, she felt relatively intact.
“How long was I out?” she asked, wondering about a concussion.
“Maybe ten minutes,” Michael said.
Libby forced herself to look at her rescuer. “Thank you for pulling me out of the pond,” she ungraciously muttered, remembering how he had taken his damned time to do it. She gave him a less than warm smile. “I’m glad you finally realized that I wouldn’t grow any bigger and decided to fish me out.”
Michael stood up. “And now I must go fish out your car,” he said, giving her an equally ungracious smile. “And see what are left of my Christmas trees.”
He leaned over, placed one hand on the back of the couch, and set his face uncomfortably close. “Your little accident has cost me first place at the state fair next year, lady,” he whispered. “And I intend to see that I’m compensated.”
With that warning—or maybe it was a threat—Michael MacBain straightened and walked out of the room. Robbie immediately scooted along the coffee table until he was sitting beside her and patted her arm.
“Don’t let him bother you, Libby. Papa likes to growl a lot, but he don’t mean anything by it.” He suddenly grinned and held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Robbie MacBain.”
Libby took the young man’s offering. “It’s nice to meet you finally, Robbie MacBain,” she said, shaking his hand, trying not to notice that it was nearly as large as hers. Or that she probably outweighed the boy by only twenty pounds.
She couldn’t decide how old he was. He spoke and acted much younger than he looked, and there was an aura of eager innocence about him. Did eleven-or twelve-year-old boys still call their fathers Papa?
“How old are you, Robbie?”
The boy puffed up his chest. “Eight,” he told her. “But I’ll be nine in January.”
Libby didn’t believe him. He was nearly as tall as she was. And his eyes, for all the innocence she saw in them, also hinted at a wisdom usually found in adults.
“Eight?” she repeated. “You’re sure?”
He frowned at her. “Of course I’m sure,” he said, as if she were simple-minded. “I was born the year of the ice storm.”
Libby hadn’t heard about any ice storm, but she nodded agreement. It was possible the boy was just large for his age, especially considering the size of his father. Michael MacBain must be nearly six and a half feet tall.
Libby stood five-foot-three in heels.
She still couldn’t believe she’d actually attacked the man in the pond. It must have been temporary insanity induced by her fear of drowning. Or maybe the cold water had momentarily frozen her brain.
“Ah, Robbie? Do you think you can find me something dry to wear?”
He thought about that and said, “Gram Ellen’s clothes are still here, but I don’t think you should use them. It might upset Grampy if he sees you in them.”
“Grampy?”
Robbie nodded. “Grampy John. He’s not really my grampy, but he likes that I call him that. He’s not here right now, but he lives with Papa and me ’cause he used to own this farm. But he sold it to Papa before I was born.”
“And your Gram Ellen? Where is she?”
“Dead,” he said, lowering his eyes. “Papa and Paul buried her in the cemetery up back two months ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Robbie,” Libby said sincerely. “Who’s Paul?”
“Grampy’s son. But he’s gone back to Hawaii now.”
“I see. Then maybe you’re right, I shouldn’t borrow your Gram Ellen’s clothes. How about something of yours?”
He stood up. “I’ll go get you one of my shirts.” He looked up and down the length of her lying on the couch. “I got some jogging pants that will fit you,” he added. He headed for the door. “I’ll bring you some socks, too.”
As soon as he disappeared up the stairs, Libby sat up and swung her feet over the edge of the couch, pulled up her pants leg, and looked at her knee. It was indeed swollen and red. She flexed the knee several times, stood up, and put some weight on it.
It hurt but still worked well enough. Libby straightened and put one hand to the small of her back, leaning backward to flex her muscles. She ached all over but suspected it was nothing compared with what she would feel tomorrow.
She was lucky. Her injuries could have been much worse, considering that she probably had totaled the car.
Libby looked around the huge living room and soon realized that this was an all-bachelor household now, since Gram Ellen had died two months ago. There was so much dust covering the furniture that Robbie and Michael’s handprints were clearly visible on the coffee table.
Robbie had mentioned in one of his e-mails that his mother had died when he was a child. And apparently there was no new Mrs. Michael MacBain in residence. Or, if there was, she wasn’t much of a housekeeper.
Libby limped over to one of the windows to look out, only to gasp in surprise.
She was standing smack in the middle of Christmas.
The snow that had threatened all day during her drive here had finally arrived. Huge, fat, cotton-ball flakes floated down over the landscape, sticking to everything they touched. Rows upon rows of Christmas trees covered the field for as far as she could see.
She had traveled to Wonderland.
Move
ment caught her attention, and Libby watched as Michael MacBain drove his tractor up to the edge of the car-eating pond. He climbed down and waded into the water until it reached his chest.
The man didn’t so much as flinch, much less hesitate to enter the freezing pond. How could he do that? Libby shuddered in her own wet clothes at just the thought of how cold he must be. Heck, she knew from personal experience.
She watched, intrigued and maybe in awe, as Michael pulled a cable from the front of his tractor and dove under the back bumper of the car to attach it. Libby held her breath and didn’t release it until he resurfaced.
The man was amazing. Or suicidal. Was he even aware that he could get hypothermia and not even know it until it was too late?
And why was he doing this dangerous and unpleasant chore for her, anyway? Especially considering how mad he was at her.
She had mowed down some of the prize Christmas trees he’d been growing for a state competition. Anyone in his situation would have simply handed her the phone and told her to call a wrecker. But Michael was working in freezing water to clean up the mess she’d made.
And for that, Libby felt guilty.
She was deeply indebted to Michael MacBain.
And that worried her. She wasn’t used to owing people. Especially tall, ruggedly handsome men who could turn her insides into warm liquid mush with just a look. Libby hugged herself, remembering the feel of Michael’s hands on her shoulders. Truth told, she’d been downright flustered in a very feminine way. Dammit. She was going to have to watch herself if she wanted to make a go of it here. She couldn’t get starry-eyed over the first good-looking mountain man she met.
Nor could she let herself get too attached to his son.
She’d come here to build a new life for herself, and she couldn’t risk getting involved with her landlords because, above all else, she had to protect her terrible secret.
Michael surfaced from the pond and tossed his head back to clear the water from his face. He waded to the driver’s side of the car and pushed on the door until it clicked shut, then looked in the backseat of the nearly submerged compact and shook his head. All of Libby Hart’s belongings were soaked, including what looked like a computer floating around in a black briefcase.
The woman was damned lucky to be alive. If he and Robbie hadn’t been home or had been up back in the twelve-acre field, she could have frozen to death before she escaped.
Michael snorted. Woman? he thought with another shake of his head. Libby Hart looked more like a boy than a woman, with her short curly hair, tiny body, and childlike large brown eyes. The only thing big about Libby was her temper.
Michael caught himself smiling again. The woman had been so flaming mad at him that she’d come out of the car cursing at him. Which meant her courage was bigger than she was, for her to go up against a man twice her size.
Which also told him that Libby Hart was reckless.
What had his son gotten them into? For the last four days, Robbie had been so excited about Libby’s arrival, it had been all Michael could do to keep the boy from bouncing off the walls.
So he’d put his son to work getting Mary’s house ready for its new tenant. And he’d shamed Grace MacKeage into supervising Robbie, since she had played such a large role in this unsubtle conspiracy to find him a wife.
Well, hell. Somebody should have asked for a picture of Libby Hart. The woman barely came up to Michael’s chest.
But Michael had to admit that she was all woman. He remembered the feel of her nice little behind as he’d lifted her out of the pond. He’d also noticed her flawless skin and long, elegant neck peeking out of her half-buttoned blouse when he’d carried her into the house. He’d had to button that blouse back up after sending Robbie to get a towel, when he would have preferred to strip it off her instead.
Michael felt his blood beginning to stir, only to realize that he’d gone numb from the waist down. He waded back out of the freezing water, climbed onto the tractor, and put it in gear. He slowly released the clutch to coax the car gently out of the pond, but his memory of Libby’s body proved a distraction. He popped the clutch, and the tractor lurched back, jerking the car with it until Michael and the two vehicles rolled out onto the road.
And still the image of Libby persisted.
Dammit. He had no use for small, reckless women.
Aye, Libby Hart was going to be trouble.
Chapter Four
Robbie sat in Libby’s newly rented house,his elbows on the kitchen table and his chin resting in his palms as he supervised her unpacking. He examined every item as it came out of her soggy suitcase and guilelessly announced whether he thought it was ruined or not.
The ruined pile was growing quite large.
Libby gave up trying to save her belongings and stuffed a lot of things back into the suitcase. She carried it over to the kitchen door and dropped it onto the floor.
“What day does the trash get picked up?” she asked her helper as she set her computer case on the table.
“Picked up?” Robbie echoed, giving her a quizzical look.
“The trash truck. What day of the week does it come around?”
“We don’t have a truck that picks up our trash. You gotta take it to the dump.”
Libby blinked at her landlord. “I have to take it myself?”
Robbie nodded. “Yup. The dump is open every Saturday.”
“I don’t suppose that your taking my trash to the dump is included in the rent?”
As Robbie thought about that, his eyebrows lowered in a deep frown. Libby laughed and waved her hand at the air. “Never mind. You come with me next Saturday and show me where the dump is. If I’m going to live here, I might as well get used to the way things are.”
Libby opened her computer case but had to step back when a gallon of water spilled out, covering the table and running onto the floor. Robbie scrambled away from the mess and whistled.
“I don’t think your computer survived, Libby. Aunt Grace says never get electronics wet.”
“Aunt Grace?”
Robbie walked back to the table and looked at the soggy computer. “She’s my mama’s sister,” he told her, finally looking at Libby. “They grew up together in this house.”
Libby stilled in the act of reaching for her computer. “And how does your aunt feel about my living in her family’s home?”
Robbie gave her a huge grin. “It was her idea. That I rent it,” he clarified. “It was my idea that I rent it to you.”
“And I thank you for that,” Libby said with a grin of her own. She looked around the huge old kitchen. “I’ve already fallen in love with this place. It feels…” She looked back at Robbie. “It feels homey. I’m going to enjoy living here. And thank you for having the firewood stacked in the garage. I can’t wait to use that beautiful hearth.”
Robbie suddenly turned serious. “I found ya some kittens, but Uncle Ian said they won’t be ready to leave their mama for a few more days yet. I can bring them here after school one day next week, if that’s okay with you.”
“Oh, that will be wonderful. Is Uncle Ian your mama’s brother?”
“No. He’s not really my uncle, he just likes that I call him that. He’s really Uncle Grey’s cousin.”
“Uncle Grey?”
“Aunt Grace’s husband,” Robbie said with an exasperated sigh. “There are four MacKeage men. Grey, Ian, Callum, and Morgan. They own TarStone Mountain Resort, on the other side of that ridge over there,” he explained, pointing at the kitchen window.
“Grey is married to Aunt Grace, Morgan is married to Sadie, and Callum is married to Charlotte,” he continued, apparently feeling the need to list his extended family.
“Ian’s not married to no one, ’cause he says he’s too cantankerous to be married to a woman,” he finished.
Since Robbie was being so informative, Libby decided to pry a bit more. She wanted to know about her new neighbors.
“Does your father have an
y brothers or sisters?”
“Nope. It’s just him and me. And John. But I already told you about Grampy.”
“And do you have any cousins on the MacKeage side?”
Robbie grinned again, then suddenly scrunched up his face. “Aunt Grace got all girls. Six. And she’s pregnant again and says this one’s going to be a girl, too.” He brightened back up. “Aunt Sadie and Uncle Morgan got three boys and a girl, but they need to grow up some more before I can really play with them. And they don’t trust me alone with Jennifer anymore. Not after I nearly killed her. But Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Callum’s got a boy, and I play with him a lot.”
Libby looked up in surprise. “You nearly killed a girl?”
Robbie nodded, then quickly shook his head in denial. “Naw. Papa told me they just said that ’cause they were scared. They didn’t understand that I was holding on real tight to Jennifer. She wouldn’t have fallen.”
“Fallen from where?” Libby asked softly.
“Off my pony. Jennifer wanted a ride for her birthday.”
“And how old is Jennifer?”
“Two. Or she was. She’s two and a half now.”
Being very careful not to let her horror show on her face, Libby sat down, only to wince when she sat in a puddle of water.
“Oh, about your wanting to have a horse,” Robbie said, completely unaware of her distress.
“What about a horse?” Libby asked, shaking away the picture of Robbie riding his pony with a child on his lap.
“I’ve been thinking that you don’t gotta buy your own horse, Libby. I was planning for you to ride Papa’s. But he told me that after seeing you, you better ride my pony and for me to ride Stomper.”
Determined to ignore Michael’s insult to her size again, Libby asked, “And just how big is Stomper that your papa thinks you would be better off riding him?”
Wedding the Highlander Page 5
