Pamela Browning - That's Our Baby!

She lifted her hair out of the way, exposing the pale skin at the nape of her neck, and, acting as if he did this all the time, Sam reached up and unbuttoned the buttons one by one. His fingers grazed her soft flesh, and he thought he felt a shudder run through her. Or maybe she was only shivering. The cabin was well-chinked, but all this going in and out of doors had lowered the air temperature in the cabin considerably.

Well, it was time to change the focus here. He was getting much too rattled over this. Over her.

“Do you mind if I build a fire in the fireplace?” he said.

She didn’t speak, only shook her head, fluttering into motion the loose tendrils wisping around her neck. Sam found himself wanting to push her hands away so that the weight of her hair would swing across her shoulders, brushing against his hands, tangling in his fingers. It shone in the dim lamplight, a marvelous wealth of hair. Her ear peeped through the edges of it, and he wanted nothing so much in that moment as to nibble on the lobe and keep going until he came across something more substantial and equally delectable.

As soon as he finished with the buttons, she said, “Thanks,” her voice murmuring so softly that he could hardly hear her.

“Be careful climbing the ladder,” he said, deliberately trying not to stare at her breasts.

“I guess I do seem accident-prone,” she replied with a rueful laugh, but he noticed she didn’t look at him as she took off lickety-split for the ladder.

The boards above his head creaked as Kerry moved around the loft, and Sam imagined her there, lifting the lid of the big old trunk nestled close to the eaves, tugging the sweater over her head to reveal a lacy bra. But maybe Kerry didn’t go in for lacy underwear. Maybe she wore plain white cotton. Or maybe she didn’t wear any.

When Kerry came back down again she had donned a somewhat less provocative plaid flannel shirt of Doug’s, and Sam was sitting on the raised stone hearth and building a fire in the fireplace.

“Is the finger feeling any better?” he asked, keeping his tone neutral.

“I’m not sure. Maybe I’m getting used to it,” she said.

She walked to the sink and dipped water from the barrel into a large chipped enamel dishpan. He watched her as she dumped detergent into the water and began to swish the red sweater around in the suds.

“I would have done that if you’d asked me,” he said, fanning the growing flames.

Her expression was skeptical. “It never occurred to me to suggest it,” she said. She poked at the sweater; he jabbed at the fire. When he’d revved the flames to his satisfaction, he noticed that Kerry was having a hard time rinsing and wringing as she tried to spare her bum finger.

“Here,” he said, rising to his feet. “If you absolutely must do that, I’d better help.”

She didn’t move when he approached, just stood there ineptly stirring the sweater around in a few inches of water. Her bottom lip was held firmly between her teeth, and he thought that she looked as if she were going to cry.

He couldn’t stand it. Kerry was supposed to be all bite and fizz, not soft and squishy and the kind of woman who would cry, for Pete’s sake. Her present state was so different from her usual persona that he felt at a loss to deal with her.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d deal with her the same way he always had when he felt threatened by her. He had to get her back up, had to rile her.

“Look at your bandage,” he said. “You’ve gotten it all wet.”

“Yeah, but I know where I can get another one.” She moved sideways, and he took over.

“If you’re lucky. Say, was it absolutely necessary to do this tonight?” he said.

“It’s a new sweater. I’ve only worn it a few times.” While he wrung it out, Kerry produced a clean towel and silently accepted the dripping bundle from him, rolling it awkwardly into the terry cloth.

Impatient with her, with her failure to lash out at him, Sam said, “Give it to me.” He blotted at the sweater, then unrolled the towel. “Dry enough?”

“Sure. Here, you can spread it on this paper on the table.” He did, and edging past him in the narrow space, she moved in to shape the sweater into its proper form.

“All right, looks like I’d better rebind those fingers, only don’t think you can get away with this too many times,” Sam said when she had finished.

“So what else is there to do besides this?” Kerry affected a bored tone of voice and presented her fingers as he unrolled lengths of gauze.

“I don’t know. Play tiddledywinks. Engage in intelligent conversation. Reminisce.” He bent close. Her hair smelled fragrant and outdoorsy, redolent of balsam and pine. He wondered what she used to wash it up here at the cabin. Rainwater perhaps.

“Reminisce,” Kerry echoed, clearly taken aback. “Just what would you and I reminisce about?”

“Old times. Good times.”

“If we’d had any, that is. Ouch, you’re winding that too tightly.”

He released some of the pressure. “Reminisce—that’s what Doug and I used to do here at the cabin. We’d fry us a panful of salmon, kick back and examine our experiences in the clear light of reason.”

“You did?” Kerry sounded surprised.

“We sure did.”

“Did you ever talk about Sybilla?”

Sam cocked his head at her and tried not to laugh. “Nope. Never.”

“Well, I sure had to witness a lot of rib-poking and eye-rolling every time her name was mentioned.”

“Doug liked to rag you about her.” Sam remained noncommittal because of all things, Sybilla was one thing he didn’t want to talk about. His lips would remain sealed about that little caper.

Kerry watched him work, silent for a time. “If there’s one thing I hope to find out before the last trump sounds, it’s about Sybilla,” she said, seeming much too hopeful.

Sam finished the job quickly and more sloppily than he would have liked, mostly because he couldn’t keep his mind on what he was doing. “I’m not telling you about Sybilla,” he said firmly. “No way.”

Kerry looked sulky, annoyed. “Why not? It was a long time ago.”

“When Doug and I were stationed in Germany with the Air Force, to be exact. Too long ago to remotely interest anyone.”

“Me,” Kerry said stubbornly. “It interests me.”

“What interests me is that you’d better not get those fingers wet again tonight. Doctor’s orders.” It also interested him that when Kerry became petulant, her lips curved into the most mesmerizing pout. An eminently kissable pout. And right now the strain of pretending that he wasn’t becoming attracted to her was beginning to make him slightly crazy.

While he was making himself think about this, Kerry held her hand up and waggled her fingers experimentally, then winced with the effort.

“Time for another pill,” he said, falsely jolly. He handed her one, and she swallowed it.

“Want me to give the hot chocolate another try?” he asked.

“Might as well. If you’re not up to talking about Sybilla.”

“I already told you I’m not.” Wishing she’d shut up about Sybilla, Sam pulled out packets of hot-chocolate mix and filled the old coffeepot with water to heat on the stove; he ignored Kerry, who sat down and pulled her legs up so that she was sitting cross-legged on the old green pullout couch that had been in the cabin ever since he could remember. She stared into the growing flames and looked pensive.

“That hot chocolate’s going to taste pretty good,” she said as he poured it into two mugs and carried one back to her. She scooted over to make room for him, a movement that in anyone else Sam might have considered a sign of companionship. In this case, however, there was nowhere else to sit unless you could count a saggy old hassock and a hard backless wooden bench on the other side of the room. So sitting beside her really meant nothing. He tried to remind himself of that.