a ripe peach. He drew closer.
She pushed to her feet. Her eyes were severe. He fancied his battered boots, tired Wranglers and wrinkled T-shirt scored a thumbs down. Her chin elevated. “Are you talking about this?” She pointed to the flower.
He nodded, unable to look away. The foolish thing reminded him of a sultry night dancer. Sultry and night was a combination he wanted—no, needed—to avoid, especially around her. Purposely, to regain his balance, he glanced at the box draped in Leigh’s clothes, and was jolted back to reality. “Looks all wrong,” he muttered, mind back on his task.
Her laugh was soft and husky. “Well, Doc, your opinion isn’t worth a hoot. But your niece is another story. She’s smart, sensitive and has this charming idea that flowers make people happy. I happen to agree with her.”
Michael turned again to the woman standing pole-straight in front of him. Her lean, tanned arms were folded under small, round breasts. Below his navel he felt a rush of blood.
He took in the blossom above her ear and the jumble of her hair. Silky, he thought, and itched to take up a fistful.
His eyes found hers. Wide, wary.
Boldly, he stepped into her space. “Happy, huh?” He watched air affect her nostrils as he touched her cheek. “Are you happy, Ms. McKay?”
“Doesn’t matter if I am or not.” She caught his wrist and plucked the marigold from her hair. “Question is,” she said softly, placing the flower in his palm, “Are you?”
His skin throbbed where their fingers curled together and the knot of petals pressed. “Happiness isn’t the issue here.”
“Wrong. It’s the only issue when it concerns your niece.” Her eyes gentled. “Don’t trash her mother’s clothes.”
He backed away. “I’m not trashing them. I’m taking them to the Lady of Lourdes church.” Defeat enveloped him. He pushed out a long breath. “I didn’t expect Jenni to come up here, okay? She was to stay downstairs.”
“Well, she didn’t. She went outside. Luckily, she wandered toward the cabin instead of the barns. Do you have any idea what she might have run into down there?”
Guilt gnashed his gut. “Look, Ms. McKay—”
“No, you look. Your niece needs you. At the moment, she’s got one person to fill those vacant spots her parents left. You. Give her some attention. Show a little concern. Heck, a pat on the head would do the trick fine.”
“Playing shrink now?”
She ignored the insult. “Jenni told me you don’t like being bothered. In my books that means she’s in your way. No child should ever be in the way.”
Michael stared at her. Bothering him? Was that how Jenni saw herself? Why not? You barely see her.
The woman before him scraped back her uneven bangs. “Fire me for pointing it out. I don’t care. The well-being of a child is more important than a job.”
He could see she didn’t give one spit if he did fire her. To her, Jenni was at risk in his custody. He didn’t know whether to feel humbled, guilty, angry or all three.
Bending to her level, he said softly, “Who do you think you are, Ms. McKay? Mother Theresa? You don’t know flip from flap about raising kids, or how it feels to live without parents. But you’re right about one thing. If you want to retain this job, keep your opinions to yourself.”
Her pupils dilated. She clamped her lower lip. Retreated a step. “I think…” Another step. “I think it’s…best I go.”
Regret spiked his belly. “Ms. McKay—”
“Shanna,” she corrected, shaking her head. “My name is Shanna,” she whispered. “Just like yours is…is Mike.”
“Mike? No one calls me Mike.” But he liked it. Across her lips it was an intimate, seductive little breath. Yeah, he liked Mike—a lot.
A quavery laugh escaped her lips. “I’ll try and remember that next time we meet.”
She left the room, and he stood alone with silence and a delayed whiff of her scent closing in on him.
Jenni sat on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. She wished Shanna would come downstairs. She knew Uncle Michael and her new friend were talking about what happened.
The tears she had wiped away started plopping on Tavia’s jumper again. It was getting really spotty. Octavia was so upset, and Jenni didn’t know how to calm her.
“It’s okay, Tavia,” she whispered against the doll’s hair. “I’ll look after you. I won’t let Uncle M. yell at you no more.”
But Tavia just kept crying, wishing for Mommy and Daddy to come down from heaven instead of staying up there and helping God all the time.
She didn’t like them being angels. She wanted them to be people like Shanna and Grammy. Even like Uncle M.
Jenni wouldn’t let Tavia tell her to say mean things to Uncle Michael, either. That wasn’t nice. She really didn’t hate him. She just didn’t want him to throw Mommy’s things away.
“’Cause,” Jenni whispered. “If he throws Mommy’s clothes away, he might throw mine away. Maybe he’ll even throw me away.”
She bit her lower lip and palmed her nose. If Uncle M. threw her away, then she and Tavia would just go and live with Shanna or Grammy. Sniffing, she swiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Yeah, that’s what they’d do. They’d live with Shanna. Shanna was fun and showed her things like the chick’bees.
Stroking Tavia’s hair, Jenni rocked back and forth, singing softly. She and Tavia felt better.
He’d been a jackass.
Again.
If she called him worse names when she opened her door, he’d bow his head and take them in stride.
All day he’d kept watch on the white log house through the trees. The battered two-toned pickup, parked in the narrow driveway, meant she hadn’t left as he’d feared during the hour he’d been to Blue Springs. Shortly after lunch his grandmother had called to announce her return from her six-week visit to her brother in Anaheim, and she’d demanded to see her great-granddaughter. Grateful for an excuse to get out of the house, he took the tyke into town. After this morning, he had no delusions about Jenni’s eagerness to leave him for a few hours.
Damn. They should be drawing closer. Bonding, not pulling apart. They shared a loss. As the adult, and a doctor, he knew how to lessen the trauma for Jen and for himself.
Except, he couldn’t.
Shanna’s right, he thought, walking the pathway toward the employee quarters. As a stand-in parent he was a bozo.
Shanna. The name hummed through his blood. He didn’t understand the attraction. She wasn’t his type. Tall, slim to the point of being gangly. He preferred women with hourglass figures. Soft. Yet, a glimpse of her had his jeans in an uncomfortable fit.
