was the point? Talking didn’t change anything. “No.” She tried a cheery smile. “The present and future are so much more compelling.”
She observed a question in his eyes, but he didn’t press her, for which she was grateful. “I could get interested in discussing the present and the future,” he whispered, drawing her into his arms. “Starting with tonight.” He lowered his head and began kissing her.
Libby’s awareness hovered somewhere above and beyond the pressure of his mouth, the tingle of his fingers running through her hair. He’d kissed her before, of course, but this was different. Not unpleasant, but no longer merely platonic.
She tried to relax, to give in to the sensation of being held, of arousing a man again. He cupped the back of her head, deepening the kiss, his tongue seeking hers. Involuntarily, an erotic response flared within her, irritating her. She didn’t want this, yet at the same time, she did. It was the best thing that could happen. Doug made her feel desirable. Safe.
When he withdrew, he framed her face with his hands, and his eyes were glazed with desire. “You’re sure about the two rooms?”
She bit her lip. Was she? Sooner or later… Suddenly it all seemed too pat, too contrived—a seduction scene. Then, out of the blue, another memory hit her—this one about spontaneity, blood-pounding need and the frantic urge to bare her body in a mindless frenzy. She froze.
“Libby?”
“Not tonight.” The words sounded like a parody of every bored, headachy housewife.
“Soon?” he asked hopefully.
She ducked her head. She wanted a husband. A home. Tears darted to her eyes. Children. Especially children. “We’ll see.”
Doug would make a wonderful father. Sadly, she knew from bitter experience that the same could not be said about some men.
One in particular.
Almost unconsciously, she pressed her hands over the flat of her womb, sensing the emptiness within.
From somewhere outside her, she heard Doug’s voice. “I care about you, Libby. I can be patient.”
She dissolved against him, feeling the steady beat of his heart, his body radiating a heat that slowly thawed the chill in hers.
It was well after midnight when she finally roused from his embrace and went to her room.
Alone.
GEORGIA CHILSOLM PAUSED in the doorway of her immaculate living room. A single dust mote fluttered and settled on the polished surface of the sofa table. She moved forward, wiping the cherry wood with the tissue she held in her hand. Then, walking briskly across the room, she aligned the pillows on the damask sofa, which were off by a fraction of an inch. The latest issues of Architectural Digest and House and Garden lay fanned on the coffee table. She checked to see that the large crystal vase of carefully arranged gladioli held sufficient water. Satisfied that all was in order, she permitted herself to stand before the fireplace, studying the pastel portrait hanging above the mantel. Ashley.
Every afternoon she spent time with her daughter, studying the serene blue gaze that followed her wherever she sat in the room. Remembering the silky feel of those white-blond tresses. Hearing in her mind Ashley’s laughter, bright and sparkling. She longed to trace once more the smooth, pale pink skin of her daughter’s cheek, to watch her lips form a small O of surprise and delight.
It was cruel, too cruel.
Georgia stepped backward, then eased into an armchair, her eyes never leaving the portrait of her daughter, frozen in time at twenty-three. Just before she met Trent Baker.
It was too late for if-onlys. Georgia had entertained such grand plans for her daughter. She closed her eyes now and pictured the shabby shotgun house in the company mining town in which she’d grown up. She could still remember how her mother hoarded the few dollars she could cajole from Georgia’s miner father before he headed for the tavern. Georgia steeled herself against the memories of nights she went to bed cold and hungry. When she’d married Gus, his thriving construction company promised a better life and a respectable standing in the community. Because of that, Ashley could have married any number of young, attractive, professional men.
Georgia worried the arm covers of the chair with her restless fingers. So why Trent? It had made no sense. A rough-and-tumble young man, no more at home in a museum or theater than a lumberjack would be. He was handsome, she’d give him that. But she’d raised Ashley to be more discriminating than to be won over by physicality and raffish charm. A twinkle in the eye was scant measure of a man’s ability to provide and protect.
Ashley had been a delightful, tractable child. A thoughtful and affectionate teen. Nothing in her experience as Ashley’s mother had prepared Georgia for her daughter’s reaction to Trent Baker. Ashley had dug in her heels, deaf to her mother’s pleas, determined to marry the man.
Then, thanks to his carelessness, the issue had been rendered moot. Ashley was pregnant.
Not wanting to alienate her daughter, Georgia had done her best to coexist with Trent. He knew she didn’t like him and would have preferred someone else for Ashley. Only the birth of Kylie had softened her stance. He was a loving father to the child, who slowly and inexorably grabbed hold of Georgia’s heart in a way no one except her daughter ever had. Georgia could almost forgive Trent as she marveled over the exquisite little girl.
Then had come the diagnosis. Abrupt. Devastating. Terminal. Georgia lifted her eyes to the portrait, where Ashley sat poised as if to speak, a smile softening her features. What would you tell me if you could, my darling daughter?
Through the long months of Ashley’s illness, Trent had remained devoted, exhausting himself with the care of both his wife and daughter. It was as if he’d wanted to graft himself to them in a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable.
Now he was taking her granddaughter away. It would have been kinder had he taken a knife and carved out a section of her heart. This loss, on top of the other, was unbearable.
The shadows lengthened on the thick Persian rug, but Georgia was oblivious, her eyes trained on the portrait, where Ashley seemed to nod her head imperceptibly as she always had when her mother over-stepped her bounds with Trent. Whether Georgia understood it or not, Ashley had loved Trent to the end. And, in his own way, he had loved her.
How could he even think of taking Kylie and moving away?
It was when she turned her thoughts to her granddaughter that the tears began to trickle in earnest down her powdered cheeks.
CHAPTER TWO
“WEEZER!” Libby greeted the leather-skinned woman with the single silver braid of hair who was walking toward her classroom. Her legs were encased in worn jeans, her feet clad in knee-high moccasins, and around the neck of her colorful western shirt, she wore a thong of beads, stones and feathers. But it was Louise McCann’s dark eyes and wrinkle-encased smile that captivated people. A member of the Blackfeet tribe, the longtime widow owned the Kodiak Café, a Whitefish institution.
“Greetings, little one. Ready for me?”
Libby moved into the hall. “Oh my, yes. The kids can’t wait.”
“With
