Firefly Glen: Winter Baby (Harlequin Signature Select) (12 page)

Harry was good at this—he loved kids. He'd have them squealing and shuddering in happy horror before the hour was up.

It was a shame, really. Once, Parker had believed
that Harry would make a great father to Emma's children. But now he wasn't even sure Harry made a very good husband. Damn the man. What was
wrong
with him?

“So have you ever really had any criminals in your jail cell?” Sarah had wandered over to his side, and she was smiling. “Last time I was here, it looked more like a petting zoo.”

“Of course we've had criminals,” Parker said in mock indignation. “Once we held an escapee from the Albany prison for forty-eight whole hours. An
ax
murderer, no less.”

She raised her eyebrows. “And that was—”

He chuckled. “Seventy-three years ago. But I haven't had a good night's sleep since.”

“No sleep? Why, that must be just like when you have a new puppy,” she observed, widening her eyes innocently.

He grimaced. “Uh-oh. You, too? God, I'm sorry. But I'm in the same boat. I took Frosty's brother, you know—he was the only one who hadn't been adopted. I swear that dog whines nonstop from dusk until dawn. Then, of course, he sleeps all day.” He gave her a placating smile. “Good thing they're so darn cute, isn't it? Otherwise you might want to strangle the puppy and the guy who gave him to you, too.”

“I'll try to control myself,” she said. “Actually, I've found the answer. Frosty cries when he's in his crate, but if I let him sleep up on the bed with me, he's fine.”

Parker held his face under control with a noble ef
fort. “Really,” he said politely, aware of all the little ears around them. “How about that?”

Sarah shot him a suspicious look, but she didn't comment. They watched Harry handling the kids for a few minutes in silence. C.J. had just locked Eileen O'Malley in the jail cell, and the other girls were snickering.

“Well, you totally won't be able to escape,” Daisy Kinsale, a pretty blonde, was saying. “Not by squeezing through the bars, anyhow!”

“But don't worry,” Daisy's smug-looking buddy Harriet piped in. “The bread-and-water diet will be good for you!”

Parker felt Sarah's tension building. “Kids can be such monsters,” she muttered under her breath. “That blond girl is Eileen's own stepsister, did you know that?”

“Yeah, I did.” Parker eyed Daisy Kinsale with annoyance. Brad Kinsale was a friend of his, and he was a damn nice guy. Why didn't he teach his kid better manners? “These mix-and-match families can be pretty rough sometimes, can't they?”

She nodded. “Brutal. I have six stepsiblings, from three different stepfathers. Believe me, I know all about it.”

He hadn't realized that Sarah's growing up had been so turbulent. Though Ward had talked about Sarah often, he had never mentioned this. Parker wondered if that might be what had made Sarah so aware of other people's needs. Being forced to get along
with so many intimate strangers—it could either make you bitter as hell or intensely sensitive.

But what a rotten life for a kid. He wondered what on earth her mother had been thinking.

He sighed. “That's just one of the reasons I'm glad my ex-wife and I never had children. Divorce is always the hardest on them, isn't it? And it makes starting over so much trickier.”

She didn't answer. She was staring at Eileen, apparently lost in thought. She looked so sad, as if she found Eileen's plight unbearable.

He suddenly wanted more than anything to make her smile. “I wouldn't worry too much about Eileen, though, if I were you,” he said.

Sarah turned. “Why not?”

“Well, she doesn't know it yet, but she's undoubtedly going to turn into a wild Irish beauty, like every O'Malley woman for ten generations behind her.”

He chuckled, remembering that Eileen's aunt, Deirdre O'Malley, had broken his own heart a couple of times during high school. “In a few years, every boy in town will be trotting around after her with their tongues hanging out. Including the boyfriends of every girl in this room.”

“Good,” Sarah said fiercely. Her chin was set in that special tight square she reserved for her most intense emotions. Watching her now, Parker realized that, for all her air of gentle fragility and her occasional mournful moments, Sarah Lennox was at heart a very strong woman.

Her appearance was deceiving. She wasn't as dra
matic as the O'Malley women—those tall, athletic women with their fiery hair and their flashing eyes. Sarah was petite and slim. Her honey-blond hair was pale and translucent, like a halo around the narrow oval of her face. Her eyes were round, wide-set and kind, with none of the flashing arrogance that made the O'Malleys look like Celtic warrior queens.

Those eyes said Sarah could be easily hurt.

But that chin said she could take it.

Yes, he thought. He would take sweet, stubborn Sarah over the O'Malley firebrands any day.

If only she'd let him.

 

B
Y NINE O'CLOCK THAT NIGHT
, when Parker was getting ready to go home, he was so tired he could hardly button his jacket properly. It had been a long day, but he had managed not to kill Harry, so in his book that meant it was a good day.

Harry had left first, five full minutes ago. Parker had stayed behind, leaving some final instructions with the graveyard deputy. He had thought it was smart to keep at least five minutes between him and Harry at all times.

But when he finally closed the department door and stepped out into the crisp, starry night, eager to get home to his quiet house, his warm fire and his annoying but adorable new puppy, he saw that Harry hadn't gone anywhere.

Instead, Harry and Emma were standing beside Emma's car. Their postures were so rigid they screamed hostility. Parker would have known he had
stumbled into a domestic disturbance even if he hadn't been able to hear their arguments clearly.

Which, unfortunately, he could.

“You're a coward, Harry Dunbar. That's why you've left. Because you don't have the courage to stay and work things out.”

“Think whatever you want, Emma.” Harry's voice was as jagged as broken eggshells. Parker stopped in his tracks. He'd never heard Harry sound like that before. “Say whatever you want. I don't give a damn anymore.”

“You never did.” Emma was trying to yell, but it came out hoarsely, as if her throat were raw from hours of crying. “If you had
ever
loved me, you couldn't give up on our marriage.”

“That's right, Emma.” Harry was trying to pull away, but Emma was holding fast to his arm. “You guessed it. I never cared.”

“Hey.” Parker moved into the circle of illumination cast from the streetlight. He went to his sister. “What's going on here?”

“Goddamn it, Parker, this is none of your—”

“He's moved out,” Emma broke in, turning to Parker. Her voice was hard and furious, but her swollen eyes, streaming with tears, spoke of a dreadful anguish. “He hasn't got the guts to stay and work out our problems, so he packed his suitcase and left me.”

“Our problems can't
be
worked out.” Harry had finally extricated himself from Emma's clutch. “But maybe you should remember that they are
our
problems. Not Parker's. Leave him out of this.”

“Listen, Harry—”

“Shut up, Parker.” Harry sounded like a total stranger. “Just shut up. Emma, go home. I'm not going to have this fight in the middle of the street, in front of everyone. It's
our
problem. Our private problem.”

Emma drew herself up with an attempt at dignity, but she was shivering. She hugged her coat around herself like a little girl. Watching her, Parker felt his blood pounding in his temples. No one was allowed to treat Emma like this.
No one.

“They stopped being
our
problems the minute you walked out the door, Harry,” she said thickly. “They are
my
problems now. And I can handle them any way I see fit.”

Harry stared at her, his mouth slightly open, as if he couldn't believe what she had said. “You'd tell him, wouldn't you?”

“You're darn right I would, if I thought it would help. At least he wouldn't just run away from the problem, like you did. At least he's not
weak.
”

Harry's head snapped back, as if from a blow. “You
bitch.
”

That was the last thing Parker clearly remembered. His vision blurred with something bright and red. He felt his arm go back, and then he felt the bones of his fist connect with the bones in Harry's jaw.

Harry must have been seeing red swirls, too, because he swung back like a madman, and before Parker could make sense of anything, he had slammed Harry's body against the wall. He had one forearm
across Harry's throat, and his jacket bunched in the other hand. He swallowed, and he tasted his own half-frozen blood.

“Stop it, you crazy lunatics!” Emma was beside him now, tugging on his arm wildly. “For God's sake, stop it, Parker. Do you think it will help me if you kill him?
I love him,
you idiot.
I love him!
”

 

H
ALF AN HOUR LATER
, Parker finally got home, but he didn't feel much like starting a fire or petting the puppy, which Emma had named Snowball. He was staring at the bunged-up thug in his bathroom mirror, wondering when he had become such a damn fool, when the telephone rang.

He started to curse, but the movement hurt his busted lip. It was probably just the new guy at the department, wondering how to handle some trivial little detail. But he couldn't risk not answering it, in case it was Emma. So he threaded his way around the scampering puppy and grabbed the bedroom phone on the fifth ring.

“Parker? It's Sarah. I'm sorry to call so late.”

He plopped down on the edge of the bed, almost too tired to register his full surprise. Snowball began whining and trying unsuccessfully to leap up with him, but it was an old tester bed, and much too high.

“That's okay,” Parker said, careful of his lip. “What's up?”

“I just wanted to say thanks for being so nice to the girls this afternoon. They had a wonderful time.”

“Good. Me, too,” he said politely. He waited, feel
ing sure she had something else to say. She hadn't called him at ten o'clock at night just to tell him that.

The hesitation on Sarah's side of the line was tense and expectant. He wondered if she was waiting for him to create an opening. But an opening for what?

“Anyhow,” she went on finally. “I have also been thinking about what we said the other day.”

Snowball began making a melodramatic racket, scrabbling at the bedclothes and whining, desperate to join him. Parker could hardly hear. So he reached over and scooped him up, one hand beneath his belly, and deposited him on the comforter. The puppy settled down instantly. He curled up against Parker's hip and rested his chin on his thigh, sighing blissfully.

“Don't get used to this,” he whispered, his hand over the mouthpiece. Then he spoke into the phone. “And? What were you thinking?”

“That maybe I was being silly. You know, over-reacting to the whole thing—the kiss, the puppy, the whole idea of dating. I meant to tell you this today, but the girls were always around and—”

“And?”

“And anyhow, I think maybe it would be okay. I'm not ready for anything serious, of course—and of course you aren't, either. But there's really no reason why we shouldn't have lunch, or see each other every now and then, if you want to.”

She paused. “I mean, assuming you want to.”

“Yeah,” he said, softly stroking the puppy, who seemed to be asleep already. “I want to. How about dinner tomorrow night?”

She seemed taken aback. “Tomorrow?”

“Well, I'd say tonight, but it's a little late. You've probably already had dinner.” He smiled. That hurt his lip, too, but he didn't care. “I'm calling your bluff here, Sarah.”

“I wasn't bluffing,” she protested.

“Okay, then. Dinner. Tomorrow night. Seven o'clock. Dress warm and come hungry.”

J
UST ONE DATE
. Just for fun. Just as friends.

What harm could it do?

Reciting those simple phrases over and over, Sarah stood at the window of her bedroom in Winter House, waiting for Parker to arrive. She wished she could get rid of this edginess. It was a tight-chested, pins-and-needles anxiety, the kind you might feel right before a rough exam for which you hadn't studied nearly enough.

Maybe it was just the weather. All day long the sky had been heavy, riding low in the heavens like a boat with too much cargo. The cook had left early, complaining that her arthritis was acting up, as it always did before a snowstorm. Ward was eating out with Madeline, and Sarah would be with Parker, so the woman had nothing to keep her at Winter House.

Sarah's ears were tuned for the engine rumble of Parker's Jeep, so she almost missed the slight, silvery tinkling of sleigh bells. Even when the lovely sound pierced her consciousness, she didn't connect it with Parker. She thought at first, illogically, of wind chimes, like the ones on the balcony of her Florida apartment.

It wasn't until she saw the sleigh itself that she
understood. Drawn by an elegant gray horse, it glided across the snow like something from another century. The curving metal runners were elaborately filigreed, like fine calligraphy, and the graceful, roomy body of the sleigh was painted a festive green, with sparkling silver trim.

Parker brought the sleigh to a stop in front of the house as easily as if he drove one every day. The horse tossed his head and pawed the snow, setting the bells along his harness jingling merrily.

For a moment, Sarah didn't move. This was another world, a world she'd never seen before. And she was enchanted. Then, remembering that this magic carriage had come for her, she let the curtain fall shut, grabbed her coat, hat, muffler and gloves and lightly flew down the staircase.

She made it to the front door just as Parker was lifting the brass knocker. “Hi,” she said, feeling a little giddy from hurrying. She glanced at the sleigh. “Nice car.”

“Like it?” He grinned. “It's a 1920 model S. One horsepower.”

When he smiled, she noticed a dark bruise that ran along the lower edge of his lip. She looked more closely. His lip was slightly swollen, too.

“Oh dear,” she said softly. “That looks painful.”

He worked the lip carefully, as if testing it. Then he smiled again. “Nope. Apparently it's not serious. Just showy.”

“What on earth happened?”

He shrugged. “Nothing, really. Occupational hazard. Much too dull to bore you with.”

She could tell he wasn't going to elaborate. And she didn't want to pry. So, giving up, she wrapped her muffler around her throat and walked down the steps. Up close, the sleigh was even more charming, the wood weathered with age but freshly painted and gleaming. The interior was piled high with rugs and pillows.

“Is it yours?”

He shook his head. “The horse and the sleigh belong to the town vet—he's a friend of mine. I told him I was going to try to impress Ward Winters's niece so that she'd help us persuade him to release all the sleighs for the festival.”

She looked over at him, smiling. “So, is that what this date is all about? Trying to enlist my support against my uncle?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he agreed, his face poker straight. “For myself, I have no interest in moonlit sleigh rides with beautiful women. None whatsoever.”

She laughed at that and tried not to let the compliment warm her too much. She wasn't beautiful, and she knew it. She was cute—occasionally, when she was at her best, even pretty in a tepid, monochromatic way.

But maybe on a cold winter night, with sleigh bells tinkling and snow just starting to fall, all women looked beautiful.

He handed her up into the seat, which was surpris
ingly comfortable. He arranged the rugs across her lap, gave one last tug to secure her muffler, and then he came around the front, offering the horse a friendly pat, and climbed into his own position beside her at the reins.

She didn't ask where they were going. She didn't care. It was enough merely to exist in this moment of extraordinary beauty. The heavy sky was like a silver silk canopy over their heads, and the frost-sparkling trees swept by like candles. The night was intensely quiet, broken only by the whoosh of the runners over the icy snow, the crunch of the horse's dancing hooves, and the clear crystal ringing of sleigh bells.

It was cold, so cold that the air streamed white from the horse's nostrils, and her cheeks burned under the frigid fingers of the wind. But it was glorious, and she never wanted it to end.

Finally, though, she saw a building, a low-slung wooden cabin surrounded by trucks. Lucky's Lounge, the neon sign out front read, at least sometimes. Occasionally the first
L
sizzled and disappeared, making it look like “ucky's Lounge.”

Sarah looked at Parker, a question in her eyes.

“I know,” he said, one corner of his mouth tucked into his cheek. “It looks awful. But it's got some of the best pizza in town, and, most importantly, there's a barn where I can stable the horse while we're eating.”

She waited for him, reluctant to enter the lounge ahead of him.
Someone
had driven all those trucks
here, and where she came from it wasn't always safe for a woman to enter a roughneck bar alone.

Besides, she liked watching him handle the horse, whose name was Dusty, it seemed. Parker murmured and stroked “—That's right, Dusty. You're a fine girl, sweetheart—” as he unhooked the harness and released the sleigh. Dusty nuzzled Parker's shoulder, blowing a soft snort, as if she understood and wanted to answer.

Finally Parker made sure Dusty could reach the hay. He arranged a blanket over the horse's back and turned to Sarah. “Okay. Now it's our turn.”

The lounge was exactly what Sarah expected—smoky and low-lit, brimming with very large, unshaven men in flannel shirts who seemed able to simultaneously watch a football game on television, play pool and sing along with the country-western song on the jukebox.

Parker knew them all. He backslapped or was slapped by almost every man he passed. But somehow he maneuvered Sarah to a booth in the back corner, where the smoke was a fraction less dense and the sportscaster's excited voice was almost inaudible.

They had just barely placed their order—one large pizza, no anchovies; one beer, one bottled water—when a giant of a man came by with his hand out.

“You in?”

To Sarah's surprise, Parker pulled a five-dollar bill out of his pocket and laid it in the other man's huge palm. “Ninety-seven,” Parker said.

The giant turned to Sarah. “You in?”

She looked at Parker for guidance. Obviously they were betting on something, but what were the rules? Should she, as an outsider, say yes or no? He was smiling, and he nodded subtly. She dug around in her pockets and found a five. “Okay,” she said, depositing it in the man's hand.

“How many?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How many yards?”

She glanced at Parker again, but his grin was so amused that she made up her mind to bluff this out on her own.

“A hundred and eleven,” she said briskly. The giant nodded, made a note on a napkin and moved on.

Parker burst out laughing. “Do you have any idea what you just bet on?”

“Yards,” she said, raising her chin. “And since he didn't look like a landscape designer or a dressmaker, I assume it must have something to do with the football game. Your guess of ninety-seven was too high for a spread. So I figured yards running. Yards passing. Something like that.”

Parker's eyes glinted in the light from the neon beer sign on the wall next to them. “Darn. You're good. Where did you learn all that?”

She raised her eyebrows in polite disdain as she unfolded her napkin. “I have had my share of sweaty, muscle-bound boyfriends, sir.” She chuckled. “Besides, I teach high school, remember? My kids don't know what I'm talking about unless I express myself in sports metaphors.”

He laughed.

“But isn't betting illegal? Aren't they worried about doing it in front of The Law?”

“Technically, we're not betting. We're paying to watch the football game on television. The chance to win the pot is just, and I quote, a fringe benefit of paying the TV tax.”

When she looked incredulous, he smiled and shrugged. “Believe me, this has been through the local judicial system. Judge Bridwell ruled that if it's a fee for the television, it's not betting. Presto-chango, it's legal.”

It was beyond Sarah's comprehension, but she let it go. Joining the pool must have been the right move, because from that moment on she was one of the gang. Dozens of men came over to say hello, often bringing their wives and girlfriends.

When their pizza was finished, one of the guys at the bar bought her a new bottled water, having discovered that she didn't drink. Later a bearded man in a hat that said
Lumberjacks Do It Till You Fall Over
came by and gave her a dollar for the jukebox.

She was the only optimist who had guessed over a hundred, and when the quarterback threw his final touchdown, putting the total at one-o-seven, the whole bar erupted in a rich, throaty cheer. “Sarah, Sarah, Sarah,” they chanted until she felt herself blushing.

She won five hundred dollars. With a huge, congratulatory grin, the giant dumped it in her lap, a hun
dred five-dollar bills, all crumpled and stained, some so worn they were held together with Scotch tape.

Embarrassed, she did the only thing she could think of. She bought a round for the whole bar. And the chorus went up again, this time even louder. “Sarah, Sarah, Sarah!”

All in all, it was wonderful—as cozy and welcoming as any group she'd ever tried to infiltrate. But, even so, she was glad when Parker tilted his head toward the door, indicating that it was time to make their escape.

“What nice people,” she murmured, half-sleepy now that she was tucked into the rugs again. Parker was clicking Dusty along at a slow walk that set the sleigh into a rhythmic motion almost like the rocking of a cradle. She and Parker were fitted so close she could feel his body heat warming her from shoulder to thigh.

The clouds had moved off while they were in the bar, and the world looked just born, white and new and hushed. The sky had lifted, revealing a silent explosion of stars.

“Yes, they are,” Parker agreed. He glanced at her. “And they certainly approved of you. They don't approve of everybody.”

She smiled drowsily. “I'll bet they approve of anyone who buys them a round of beer.”

“Well, maybe.” He rode in silence for a minute. “Actually, I was thinking of my ex-wife. Once, when she came home with me for a visit, I took her to Lucky's. God, what a disaster. Tina sat there looking
like someone had put a steel rod in her back, like she was afraid she'd catch something if she moved. And she had this bad-smell pucker on her face. After about ten minutes, not a soul in the place would speak to us.” He shook his head at the memory. “Tina wasn't a fan of small towns.”

Sarah looked over at him curiously. “What
was
she a fan of?”

“Our life in D.C. It was the perfect town for her. Tina was a fan of power. Money. Excitement. She breathed glamour like other people breathe air.”

Sarah touched his arm with her gloved hand. “And
you.
After all, she married you. She must have been a pretty big fan of yours.”

“Only when I was part of the power package.” He shrugged. “When she heard that I wanted to leave D.C. and come back here, she permanently resigned her membership in the Parker Tremaine fan club.”

“She divorced you because she didn't want to live in a small town?” Sarah squeezed his arm, thinking what a fool Tina Tremaine sounded like. “That must have been very difficult for you.”

Parker shook his head. “Not really. Receiving those divorce papers was like getting a pardon from the governor. For both of us. Our marriage was the difficult part. For both of us. It was a terrible mistake, almost from the beginning.”

So Parker had moved away, leaving his ex-wife behind. Sarah felt a stirring of sympathy for Tina, which she knew was absurd, given what she'd heard about the woman. But Sarah had been left behind, too,
and she knew how it felt. Was it possible that Ed and Parker had more in common than she had thought?

She shivered suddenly. Assuming the wind was bothering her, Parker reached over comfortably and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her more tightly against the solid warmth of his body.

No, she thought with an intense, instinctive defiance. Ed and Parker were nothing alike. Parker would have brought his wife, if only she'd been willing to come. Ed had made it clear that Sarah was not invited.

Gradually the streets they traversed became more and more populated, until they were in the thick of town. Parker slowed Dusty down even further, offering Sarah time to enjoy the view.

And what a view it was, especially for a little Southern schoolteacher who had never even seen snow before. Firefly Glen was like an enchanted village, with its snow-laden roofs, its smoke-plumed chimneys, its old-fashioned streetlights floating like neat rows of glowing golden orbs.

“Look over there.” Parker suddenly drew Dusty to a standstill. “The Spring House—look!”

Sarah followed Parker's gloved finger, which was pointing toward a storybook Victorian mansion, all pink and white and dove-gray, with fanciful gables and ornate gingerbread woodwork. A huge porch wrapped around the entire house.

“Yes,” she said, transfixed by the extraordinary feminine charm of the house. “My uncle showed me all four Season Houses when I came here years ago. It's even more beautiful than I remembered.”

“But look,” Parker said softly. “Up on the porch.”