Quinn had sensed him before she saw or heard him. Opening one eye into a mere slit, she watched as he bent down to lift a log and leaned over to place it on the diminished pile of smoldering wood. He added a second log, then a third. He brushed his hands on his dark sweatpants, then softly crossed the rag rug to straighten her blankets. Pausing just slightly, he reached down and touched the side of her face, touched her lips with his fingertips in a gesture of longing that took her breath away. Drawing his hand back abruptly, he turned and padded back down the hall.
Raising one hand to her face, Quinn traced the path his fingers had made on her skin, and with the other, she wiped the tears from her cheek.
Chapter Eight
Sensing that a new day had actually managed to dawn somehow through the intensity of the storm's fury, Quinn stretched her arms over her head and looked around. It hadn't been a dream after all. She was really here. And that meant that Cale was here, too. What a strange twist, she thought as she slid the blankets off and went to the window. As suspected, the storm still raged outside. Funny, though, that it seemed to confine itself to the mountain. Her mother had said they had had but an inch or so of snow, not even enough to keep Trevor from picking up her sisters at the airport.
Grabbing her clothes out of the bag, she tiptoed to the bathroom and washed her face and dressed in the same brown wool tweed pants and heavy oatmeal- colored sweater she'd worn the day before. Standing in the hallway, she listened for sounds from either of the two bedrooms. Hearing none, she went into the kitchen and poked in the cupboards.
Val had most certainly stocked up. There were several bags of flour and sugar, lots of herbal teas, and several packages of pudding mix, cans of soup and jars of spaghetti sauce, and boxes of pasta. In the refrigerator she found milk, several boxes of butter and eggs, some apples, oranges, and raisins. The freezer held packages of frozen food, and she poked through them. Remembering the boys' complaint about Cale's spaghetti, she lifted out a bag of mixed vegetables and a package of rock-hard beef. Guessing that Cale might welcome a little help as much as the boys would welcome the variety, perhaps she would suggest a simple stew for that night.
In a basket near the back door, she found small pieces of wood for the stove, and soon she had a pot of coffee on. By the time the two small tousled faces had appeared in the doorway, she had already planned the breakfast she would make. It was the least she could do, she reasoned. Cale clearly did not enjoy cooking, and she did. Besides, she was up and he was not, the boys were there and hungry.
"Pancakes?" she asked, and they nodded enthusiastically. "Go get dressed, and by the time you get back, there should be a few ready for you."
"Yea!" they shouted as they ran from the room and down the hall.
Within minutes, their father had emerged, and following his nose to the kitchen, he, too, soon stood in the doorway.
"I hope you don't mind, but I come from a long line of take-charge types," she told him. "Besides, I was awake and I just thought..."
"Thank you. I appreciate the help. You probably noticed that I'm not exactly James Beard." He smiled, and her knees turned to jelly. "What can I do?"
Just stand there and let me look at you for a while. A few days might be enough. She swatted at the thought and handed him a cup of coffee, saying, "Nothing. It's all done. Look what I found in the cupboard. Chokecherry sauce. Val must have bought it at the Larkspur Fall Festival in October."
"I cant remember the last time I had this on pancakes." Cale lifted the jar to give his hands something to do and pretended to read the homemade label. The scent of lilac was gone, he noted regretfully, and had been replaced with the musky smell of his own soap. It was just as well, he told himself. That soft flowery scent had brought back too many memories of too many nights he was better off not thinking about right now. Time enough to look back, when the snow stopped and she would leave him to go back to the ranch.
He watched her break eggs into the batter. She looked beautiful. He wished he could tell her so. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, "Pancakes are a big step up for us this week. 'You'll have to give me lessons."
"Be glad to." She turned her back to shield herself from his eyes. The urge to reach out and touch him had been so strong, so real, that it spooked her. If there had been a place to run to, she might have fled, but the storm whistled and sang outside the small cabin, and so she merely squared her shoulders and stirred the pancake batter.
"Yea! We're having pancakes!" Eric of the cowlick sang as he ran into the room.
"Yippee!" Evan dashed in, hot on his brother's heels, and slid in his stocking feet into the solid wall that was his father. Looking up, he asked earnestly, "Does this mean we don't have to eat cold cereal or sloppy eggs today?"
"What are you, a budding food critic? Sit." Cale pointed toward the little wooden table, and the two boys hopped over and seated themselves expectantly.
Cale forced his hands steady as he held the plate upon which Quinn layered pancakes. Forced himself to pretend that it had not been her leg that had touched his under the table. Forced himself not to grin like a total and complete idiot when she blinded him with a smile from across the room. Forced his hands to remain at his side rather than follow their natural course to her hips when she turned her back to rinse dishes at the sink when breakfast was over. Forced his lips not to seek the back of her neck...
"Daddy, we have nothing to do." Eric's little freckled face frowned hard, to emphasize the extent of grumpiness.
Cale paused. He was damned near out of options.