Authors: Emily March
Celeste’s blue eyes showed a glimmer of concern as she asked, “Is Gilbert okay?”
“Gilbert is the Energizer Bunny of Eternity Springs’s seventies set, and he’ll be just fine if he stays off that ankle for a few days.”
“Good. I’d hate for anything to cast a damper on our first official Angel’s Rest Valentine’s Day Dance. It’s been wonderful so far. And just look at our honorary king and queen. Have you ever seen a more romantic pair?”
Rose followed the path of Celeste’s gaze to where Flynn Brogan and Gabi Romano swayed to Elvis singing “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in each other’s gazes. “They are … sweet.”
Sickeningly so
.
“We’ve had some fabulously romantic marriage proposals here in Eternity Springs already,” Celeste continued, “but I will say I’m partial to how Flynn proposed. The way he reengineered that motorboat into an iceboat so he could take her sailing on Hummingbird Lake in order to pop the question shows not only a brilliant mind for design but also a truly romantic nature.”
Rose’s disdain melted a bit. She didn’t give a whit for romance, but a brilliant mind had always turned her on.
Of course, that was what had led her into trouble more than once, wasn’t it?
“They make a nice couple,” Rose observed, trying to show some interest in the local lovebirds. She liked Gabi. In fact, she liked all the women in her sister’s group of friends, and she considered them her friends too. But ever since she’d come to town, the single women had been dropping like flies—i.e., getting married. They were all so blissfully happy with their handsome husbands and darling kids. While they never intentionally excluded her, she was invariably the fifth wheel, the old maid, the auntie. Sometimes it simply grew old. And now, Gabriella Romano had joined the ranks. Another confederate bites the dust.
“Has Gabi said when the wedding will be?”
“I think they’re still negotiating. Gabi wants to plan a wedding—with a capital W. She does love all the froufrou and lace. Flynn, on the other hand, would like to elope.”
“I’m sure they’ll work it out,” Rose said, zipping up her physician’s bag. She lived in the garret apartment of Cavanaugh House, the Victorian mansion at the heart of the Angel’s Rest grounds. She wanted to get home to a hot bath, glass of cabernet, and the postapocalyptic novel she was reading. Exactly why she particularly enjoyed that genre of book, she couldn’t say, but she read every one that came out. She liked how the protagonists rose from the ashes, and built new worlds for themselves. Maybe because she identified with the premise. Wasn’t the life she was presently living postapocalyptic in its own way?
“I’ll be at home if you have any other accidents, Celeste,” Rose told her, thinking she might snag a brownie off the refreshment table on her way out. “Just give me a call.”
“Oh, Rose,” Celeste protested. “Won’t you stay and enjoy the dance with us? Not everyone here has a date, you know. We particularly designated it as a singles-welcome event.”
Rose’s gaze found the newly engaged couple once again, and then trailed over to where her sister danced with her husband, their expressions unfortunately sappy for a couple who should have moved beyond that dreamy-eyed stage by now. “Thanks, but I need to—oh, no.”
She switched back into doctor mode the instant she spied the bloodstained boy dash into the room. She took half a step forward, then stopped and reassessed. Not blood. Food coloring? Or paint? Probably paint.
The kid was maybe seven or eight years old, and he wore red-stained jeans, a red-stained Oregon Ducks jersey,
and a panicked expression. The reason for the panic became immediately obvious.
A man burst through the door in hot pursuit. Hair dark as sin flowed nearly to his shoulders and framed a face that belonged on a Hollywood movie poster advertising the latest too-handsome-to-be-human vampire flick. Dark brown eyes gleamed above sharp cheekbones and a blade of a nose. His lips drew back over straight white teeth in a tight, predatory smile.
“Get back here, you little hoodlum,” he hissed, his path taking him toward Rose. “I swear, I’m going to string you up by your shoelaces and make you listen to show tunes for two hours straight!”
The boy stopped in the middle of the hall, glanced wildly around for an escape, then darted straight for Rose. He hit her legs with enough force that she swayed and took an inadvertent step backward.
“Save me!” the boy cried out.
“From what?” she wondered aloud. Then, meeting the stranger’s grim gaze, she asked, “Show tunes?”
Mile-wide shoulders shrugged and a deep voice rumbled. “They’re torture.”
“You like to threaten little boys with torture?”
“Doctor”—his gaze lowered to the name embroidered on her lab coat, then dropped a little more and lingered on her breast—“
R. Anderson
. In the last two days, I’ve been stabbed with a Tinkertoy, beaten over the head with a Wii controller, drenched with fox urine, and bitten twice. So yeah, whatever nonviolent defense mechanism works.”
Then, to the boy, he added, “Keenan, stop. You are too young to feel up the pretty doctor.”
Rose’s mouth gaped, but before she could comment, the stranger continued, “Let go of her leg and come with me, you little vampire.”
“No!”
“I’ll give you cake.”
“Okay.” Keenan’s face brightened, showing Rose that bribery worked with this child, too.
The hands wrapped around her legs released her, and the stranger moved like lightning to wrap his big hand around the little boy’s wrist. Keenan pulled against him, pointing toward the door. The stranger said, “Sorry for the interruption, ladies. Doctor, if you’ll send the cleaning bill for your coat to me, I’ll be glad to pay for it.”
He’d taken two steps away when Rose said, “Wait!”
He pulled up. Rose focused on the boy. “The room is full of people. Why did you run to me?”
“You’re a doctor. Doctors save people.” The boy yanked from the stranger’s grasp and darted for the door.
The man met Rose’s gaze, and his lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Poor kid still believes in fairy tales.”
The beautiful stranger turned away and followed the boy. Rose watched him go, his confident, long-legged strides eating up the distance. When she realized that her gaze lingered on the way his butt filled out his jeans, she snorted in self-disgust.
“Who in the world was that?”
“Why, he’s the newest member of Eternity Springs’s Chamber of Commerce, Hunter Cicero. Cicero is a brilliant glass artist, our Gabriella’s mentor. He moved here from Texas ten days ago.”
“Oh, Sage has talked about him.”
And how totally pretentious to go by one name
, she thought as she slipped off her lab coat and inspected the paint stains. “His little boy is darling, with that white-blond hair and blue eyes. Not much family resemblance, there.”
“Keenan isn’t Cicero’s son. He’s his nephew. Keenan, his brother, and sisters are visiting Eternity Springs for a few days while their guardians ski over at Wolf Creek. They are staying at one of our cottages here at Angel’s
Rest. The poor little dears lost their mother last month. Cancer.”
As always, a knot formed in Rose’s stomach at the mention of the word. Then, because this was winter in a small town where gossip ruled as a main form of entertainment, and because she needed a distraction from black thoughts, she indulged her curiosity. “Why guardians? Where is their father?”
“Fathers, plural,” Celeste corrected. “According to Misty, the nine-year-old who is quite the chatterbox when you can coax her out of her book, all four of the children have different fathers, three of whom have never been part of their lives. The mother must have been quite the free spirit.”
“That’s a charitable term, Celeste,” Rose observed. “Personally, I’d go for irresponsible.”
Celeste didn’t argue. “The woman did marry the youngest child’s father, but tragically, he passed before little Daisy was born. His sister and her husband are the children’s guardians.”
So they’re orphans
. “Poor kids.”
“Yes, they are heartbroken and afraid. And, a handful for whoever is supervising them. Keenan and his siblings are spending the evening in the Little Angels center.”
“Aha. That’s where the red paint came from. Looks like craft time got out of hand.”
“Yes,” Celeste said, with a sigh. “I should probably go check on things. Thanks for your assistance with Gilbert, dear.”
“Glad to help.”
Rose’s gaze followed Celeste toward the door, which led to a set of rooms currently serving as Angel’s Rest’s day care center. She hoped young Keenan hadn’t created too much chaos. Those rooms had to be just as crowded as the dance, she knew.
The Eternity Springs baby population was booming,
so much so that her sister had agreed to see pediatric patients in the clinic one day a week until the town could recruit a new specialist. Although Sage was trained as a pediatric surgeon, she’d found that her second career as an artist and gallery owner suited her better than medicine. Of course, she loved her role as wife and mother best of all.
Rose was happy for her sister. Admittedly, envy reared its little green head upon occasion, but for the most part, Rose was content. She liked her life. She loved being a small-town doctor, adored her role of doting aunt to Sage’s son, little Colton Alexander, a.k.a. Racer. She valued her independence. She still had dreams of seeing one of the medical thrillers she’d written on bookshelves someday, but that wasn’t a happiness deal breaker.
Sure she had regrets, but who went through life without any regrets? Nobody she knew
. As a rule, she was a positive thinker. Right now she was thinking positively about red wine, a book, and a bath.
Rose loved to read, and she’d started a new, postapocalyptic book last night. The author had done an excellent job of world building, and she was anxious to immerse herself in the story.
With any luck, she would discover that in the new world rising from ashes of the old, Valentine’s Day didn’t exist.
Thirty-two hours
, Cicero told himself. The Parnells were due here to pick up the pest quartet in thirty-two hours. He could handle things that long. They’d be asleep for eight of those hours, too, so really, he only had twenty-four to contend with. He could survive twenty-four more hours.
Maybe.
Possibly.
A crash sounded from the room off the studio where the monsters were supposed to be parked in front of the TV watching cartoons. Cicero closed his eyes and muttered, “I’m toast.”
“You should take them outside,” Gabi suggested as she placed the vase they’d just completed into the annealer and closed the door. “Let them run off some energy.”
The thought of going through the significant effort to get everybody suited up into snow gear exhausted him. “Maybe you could—”
“Not on your life. You promised me when I took charge of them this morning that I’d fulfilled my babysitting duty for this visit.”
“You’re fired.”
“Empty threat, boss,” she shot back. “I’m the only gaffer in at least a hundred miles. So, what do you want me to work on while you are out with the little cherubs?”
“See what sort of start you can make on the teardrops for the Danbury Homes light fixture order.”
He no sooner finished than a second crash occurred, followed by a howl. He pivoted and strode into the storage room currently serving as his studio’s child care center. His gaze searched for the reason for the wails—no blood. LEGO bricks lay strewn across the room, five-year-old Galen looked smug, and Keenan appeared ready to start swinging.
“He broke my bridge!”
“All right, you hoodlums. Everybody into their cold weather gear. It’s time to go sledding—oh.” His Daisy lay curled up in one corner fast asleep. “How does she sleep with all the racket?”
“It’s like this all the time,” Misty said, not looking up from her book. “She’s used to it.”
Keenan and Galen jumped to their feet and grabbed for their coats.
Misty turned another page. “I’ll stay inside with her, Uncle Hunk.”
“Hunt,”
he stressed. “You have to stop saying that.”
She looked up from her book and managed to stare down her pretty little nose at him. “You stop calling me a worm.”
“I’m going to clean your clock!” Keenan said to his brother.
“What clock?” Galen replied, his little brow knitted in confusion.
“Not
a
worm,” Cicero answered Misty, “just worm. As in
book
worm. It’s a term of endearment.”
“Whatever.” She shrugged and went back to reading. “Daisy will sleep for an hour. Go play with the boys. We’ll be fine.”
Cicero hesitated. Before Jayne died, he’d noticed how often she’d dumped responsibility for Daisy off on her older daughter. It had reminded him of how he’d been forced to watch after Jayne and two younger children during his five months in the Weber household. As a ten-year-old, he’d placed the blame squarely on seven-year-old Jayne’s shoulders rather than where it belonged—on those of his foster parents. When he couldn’t sign up for Pee Wee football because he had to babysit, he’d resented Jayne. When he had to change diapers, he’d held Jayne responsible. When Penny Weber required him to take the younger kids to the park and push the baby in the kiddie swing rather than join the other kids his age in a pickup baseball game, he’d bitterly faulted Jayne. After all, to his mind, the Webers could do no wrong. They’d rescued him and Jayne from three months in hell at the Radmacher house.
Even all these years later, just thinking that name made Cicero’s stomach roll.
He turned his attention back to Misty. He couldn’t do anything about how her mother had treated her, and he had next-to-no influence over what the Parnells did, but he could darn well make sure that
he
didn’t ask too much of her.
“I changed my mind. Since there are clocks needing to be cleaned, you boys can have a snowball fight instead of sledding. Misty, we’ll be in the side yard. The minute your sister starts to stir, you shout at me.”
She nodded without looking up.
He added, “Later, we’ll make a visit to the library.”