Winter Baby. Kathleen O'Brien

by the badge, I guess. You know women. Anything that sparkles.”

      Madeline made a small, offended noise. “Not every woman, Ward,” she sniffed, but the old man just rolled his eyes and ignored her.

      “Besides,” Ward went on, obviously enjoying himself, “he’s kind of a half-ass sheriff, and lately he’s been annoying the hell out of me. But he’s a passable chess player, so I haven’t thrown him out. Yet.”

      “Actually, I think you should hear this story.” Parker Tremaine was clearly undaunted, as amused by the bickering as her uncle was. He tossed a wink at Sarah. “It’s a good story, Ward. You’ll love it—it’s all about you. See, your niece rescued me from a lynch mob. That’s right, a lynch mob, ready to string me up in the town square. And you know why? Because I haven’t slapped you in jail yet.”

      “Ha! Put me in jail?” Ward raised his shaggy black eyebrows. “You and whose army?”

      “The Chamber of Commerce army, Ward. Every one of the Firefly Glen innkeepers, shop owners, ski renters and hot chocolate vendors who had planned to get rich from the ice festival. They think you’re trying to destroy them financially, and they don’t plan to lie down and let you do it. I’m pretty sure the words ‘libel’ and ‘punitive damages’ were mentioned.”

      So that was what it had all been about, all those tense faces and strained voices at the clothing store. Sarah looked over at her uncle, perplexed. She wondered what he’d done.

      “Oh, what a bunch of babies,” Ward said, waving his hand in a symbolic dismissal of the entire argument. “It was just a couple of little letters to the editor. Just one man’s opinion. This is America, isn’t it—even this far north? Since when did it become libel to express your opinion?”

      “I’m pretty sure it’s always been libelous to imply that there’s something dangerously wrong with the Glen’s tap water.”

      To Sarah’s surprise, her uncle looked sheepish, an expression she didn’t remember ever seeing on his rugged face before. “Well, mine tastes funny, Tremaine, and that’s a fact. Try it. Tastes like hell.”

      “It’s always tasted like hell. It’s the minerals. You know that. And honestly, Ward. Ten newspapers? Including the New York Times?”

      “Well, I didn’t think they’d run it,” Sarah’s uncle said, his voice a low grumble.

      “Tea, Ward?” Madeline chirped merrily. Ward glared at her, but she kept bustling around, gathering up his cup and saucer, tsking and fluffing his napkin. Sarah couldn’t tell what had set the older woman into such a dither. Was it because the topic of the ice festival upset her, or was she just tired of being left out of the conversation?

      “Flora, do pour Ward a fresh cup. His is cold. Do you think it might be a little chilly in here? I do.” She shivered prettily. “I think we might have let the fire burn down too far. I’ll fix it. I just love a good strong fire, don’t you?”

      Brass poker in one hand, Madeline opened the heavy metal screen that covered the flaming logs and began stirring carelessly. The fire surged in a whoosh of sound, one of the bottom logs collapsed, and embers flew out like red and orange fireworks.

      Just as Madeline turned away, one of the embers settled on the bright yellow tulips of her flowing skirt. Sarah noticed it and felt a faint stirring of alarm, but before she could say a word, the frothy fabric began to blacken and curl. A lick of flame started traveling with hideous speed up the back of Madeline’s dress.

      “Oh!” Madeline was turning around, trying to see what was happening. She was clearly too rattled to do anything sensible. With a whimper of fear, one of her sisters tossed a cup of tea over the flame, but it was half empty, and managed to extinguish only one sizzling inch of fabric. The rest still burned.

      Sarah began to run. Ward began to run. But miraculously Parker was already there, gathering up the skirt in his hands and smothering the flames.

      It was out in an instant. Just as quickly as it had begun, the crisis was over. Half-crying with nervous relief, Madeline collapsed helplessly into Ward’s waiting arms. She murmured weak thanks to Parker, but she didn’t lift her face from Ward’s shoulder and so the words were muffled and, it seemed to Sarah, just slightly grudging.

      It was as if Madeline resented the fact that Parker, not Ward Winters, had stepped forward to be her hero.

      But Parker didn’t seem to care. He accepted Madeline’s thanks, and that of her sisters, with a comfortable lack of fuss, as if he did such things every day. Marveling at his indifference to his own courage, Sarah stared at the sheriff. He was still down on one knee, his hand resting on a lean, muscular length of thigh, graceful even at such a moment. His careless waves of black hair fell over his broad forehead as he checked the carpet for any live embers.

      Sarah swallowed against a dry throat. Madeline might prefer her heroes to be silver haired, craggy faced and over seventy. But if Sarah had been in the market for a hero, which she wasn’t, Parker Tremaine would have been just what the fairy tale ordered.

      A minute ago, he had joked about how she had saved his life. But he had really saved Madeline just now. With his hands. His bare hands—

      She looked at those hands. Blisters had begun to form on the palms. Everyone was clustered around Madeline, oohhing and aahing over her near escape. Why wasn’t anyone worrying about Parker?

      She touched his shoulder softly.

      “Sheriff,” she said, trying to force out of her stupid mind any thoughts of fairy tales, to think only of ointment and bandages, aspirin and common sense. “Come with me, and I’ll find something to put on your hands.”

      LUCKILY, PARKER KNEW where the first-aid supplies were kept at Winter House. Madeline, who was glued to Ward’s shoulder, was making a hell of a racket. Sarah Lennox, inquiring politely where the bandages were stored, was no match for her.

      Parker knew he didn’t really need a bandage. The damage to his hands was minimal—just one small blister on each palm. He got more torn up chopping wood every week or two. But Sarah looked so sweetly concerned he just couldn’t resist. And besides, it would give him a couple of minutes alone with her, something he’d been hoping for ever since he first glimpsed her on the mountain this morning.

      He had fully expected to meet her again sooner or later. Firefly Glen was too small for any two people to avoid each other for long, even if they were trying. But what a piece of luck that she should be related to his good friend Ward.

      “The supplies are upstairs,” he said, cocking his head toward the doorway, inviting her to follow him. “I’ll show you.”

      Back before indoor plumbing, the bathroom had been a small bay-windowed bedroom adjacent to Ward’s own suite. When the mansion had been updated to include all the modern amenities, this room and several others had morphed into bathrooms and walk-in closets.

      As a result, it looked like the bath in some fantastic monastery. It was painted Madonna blue, with a ribbed, domed ceiling forming a Gothic arch over the claw-footed bathtub. The bay windows were blue and gold stained glass.

      Sarah smiled as Parker opened the door. “I’d forgotten how amazing this house is,” she said. “When I was here as a kid, I was a little afraid of it. I was always getting lost.”

      “I’ll bet. I still do. I’m convinced the place was designed by a lunatic.” Parker unlatched the medicine chest with the tips of his fingers, revealing a well-stocked supply of ointments and bandages. He held out his hands and smiled. “Okay, then. Be gentle.”

      Sarah smiled back and, as she leaned forward to assess the damage, he could just barely smell her perfume. Nice stuff. Sweet and modest, but with a hidden kick to it. A lot like the impression he got of Sarah herself.

      Not that he’d know anything about that. Not really.

      Not yet.

      “Oh, dear,” she said, running