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  He shifted his weight to lie closer to her, his arousal hard and heavy against her. He moved his hand between them, to the juncture of her thighs, to the softness at the very center of her being, kneading slowly, with a tantalizing rhythm that drove rational thought from her head. His mouth claimed hers again.

  But this kiss was different, no longer questioning, questing. She could feel it in the tension that tightened muscle and tendon beneath her hands. Michael was a man, fully aroused, and she was a woman. He wanted her. And she wanted him. Her body moved with a mind of its own, her stomach clenched in desire...and fear. Soon there would be no turning back, no retreat. Sarah closed her eyes against the sudden unreasoning spurt of apprehension that slipped along her nerve endings and cooled her blood.

  What was wrong with her?

  Michael had done nothing she hadn’t wanted him to do, hadn’t welcomed. Why, now, did she feel as if there were no air to fill her lungs, as if she might burst into tears?

  He sensed the change in her immediately, and his hands stilled. He moved slightly, shifting position so that their bodies were no longer one.

  “What’s wrong, Sarah?” he asked, gruffly but with an odd gentle note to his words. He frowned, tracing the track of one wayward teardrop.

  “Nothing,” she said, blinking desperately to hold back more tears of frustration and embarrassment. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Yes, there is.” He stroked her hair. “I frighten you.”

  “No!” She struggled to sit up. No. He mustn’t think it was his fault. Michael pulled her up against him and helped her refasten her clothes while the color rushed into her cheeks again. How could she tell him that she wasn’t frightened of him? That she was frightened of herself, of her response to him, a stranger, a man she barely knew. “No. It’s nothing you did. I...I frightened myself,” she finally managed to say.

  He didn’t contradict her. “How long has Eric been dead?” he asked.

  She bit down on her bottom lip, and then looked up from fastening the buttons of her blouse. “Three years.”

  “That’s a long time to be alone.” Michael brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. “And you have been alone, haven’t you?”

  Sarah nodded. “A very long time. I...there hasn’t been anyone since Eric died.” And, God help her, she’d never felt like this when Eric was alive.

  “I would never hurt you, Sarah,” Michael said tenderly.

  She couldn’t let him think the realization of the depth of her feelings, or the sudden unreasoning fear of her own inadequacy was his fault. She reached out and covered his hand with hers. “I know that, Michael. It wasn’t your fault. It’s mine. All mine. I...I just...” She wanted him, needed him, but how could she come right out and say it?

  He gave a harsh, grating laugh. “I guess I should have asked you this question before we got where we are. Are you still in love with your husband?”

  Sarah looked down at her hands. Was she? She shook her head, raising her eyes to his. “No. I loved Eric, but he’s dead and I’ve accepted that. It has nothing to do with what I felt for Eric. It has everything to do with me. You see...” She knew she was going to be hurt by what she intended to say. She knew he didn’t share her feelings, might never share her feelings, but she couldn’t stop herself from speaking the words aloud.

  “Don’t, Sarah.” Michael sounded almost desperate. He reached out and placed the tip of his finger against her lips. “Don’t say something we’ll both regret.”

  She brushed his hand away. “I can’t help it, Michael. I have to say it. I’m afraid because of how much I already care. I’m afraid of how deeply I already feel. You see, I think I’m falling in love with you.”

  * * *

  I THINK I’M falling in love with you. God, would he never get the words out of his head? Michael slammed the half-empty bottle of whiskey down on the table. It was the first drink he’d had since the night he’d moved into this place, but it wasn’t going to be the last. I think I’m falling in love with you.

  He bolted down the liquor in his glass and scraped his chair back from the table. The sound was loud in the cold, quiet room. He should have turned on the old portable TV on the counter, or at least the radio by the bed. Anything so that he didn’t have to sit here alone with his thoughts. He poured another drink, swallowed it and shuddered. He’d lost his taste for whiskey. Another thing that had changed for him since he’d come to Tyler, Wisconsin.

  He shouldn’t have stayed so long. He shouldn’t have been so hell-bent on finding his roots. He’d let himself be drawn into the silken web of caring and commitment that Sarah spun so effortlessly and so innocently. Sarah. Soft and sweet and eager to please, but with a sense of duty and purpose that gave her softness the underlying strength of tempered steel.

  He walked to the window, resting both hands on the curved iron of the old bedstead where he slept, alone and aching, every night. He looked out the window. The kitchen light was off. The house was dark except for the gold rectangle of light shining on the wet grass around the corner of the house that he knew held her bedroom. Was she working on Sunday’s sermon, or reading in bed? Had she fallen asleep with the light on? What did she look like as she slept?

  Michael banged his fist on the bed frame and turned back toward the kitchen. He needed another drink, but he stopped himself before he got that far. There wasn’t enough whiskey in the state to stop his thoughts from following their forbidden path.

  God, he wanted to know what it felt like to have Sarah in his bed. But not for just a one-night stand. Sarah wasn’t that kind of woman. Sarah was a woman for a lifetime. That was what made it all so impossible. Sarah was forever, and Michael Baron Kenton’s life plans, such as they were, had no place for forever.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “MAY THE PEACE of the Lord and of this blessed season be with you and yours.”

  “Amen.”

  Sarah lifted her head and smiled out over the congregation. It was a good turnout for the first Sunday in December, when warm beds and early holiday-shopping sprees to Madison or Milwaukee were temptations sometimes too great to ignore. But it was the man in the second-to-last pew that she was really smiling for.

  For the first time since coming to Tyler, Michael Kenton had chosen to attend the worship service. She’d been aware of him from the moment he’d set foot inside the door. She’d watched with apprehension as heads swiveled to mark his entrance. A few mouths were pursed in disapproval, she noted, but there were smiles of welcome, too. She’d watched him from her seat at the left of the pulpit as he listened to the children’s choir and joined in the singing of hymns. She’d never heard him sing, she realized. She wondered what his singing voice was like. Low and rich, probably, judging from the way he spoke. A baritone, or perhaps even a bass.

  She’d even made eye contact with him—once, at the beginning of her sermon, after which she’d almost forgot what she wanted to say. From then on, she’d made a point not to look his way, to keep her mind on her duties and on the celebration of God’s word.

  The strains of the recessional came from the wheezing old organ behind the pulpit. As clever as Michael was at repairing things, there was nothing he could do about the organ. It was simply worn-out. She would love to start a fund drive for a new one, Sarah thought with a sigh. But there were so many other, more pressing needs in the parish. The organ, like so much else, would have to wait.

  People were beginning to hunt for gloves and purses; murmurs of conversation began to float into the aisles. Sarah held up her hands and pitched her voice to carry over the others. “Remember, rehearsal for the Christmas pageant will be Tuesday night at seven, downstairs at TylerTots. Mothers who have volunteered to make costumes please see Miriam Phillips about getting together to work on the wise men’s crowns.” She looked down at the notes she’d made for herself. “Oh, yes
. Don’t forget the community tree-lighting ceremony tonight at seven in the town square. I hope I’ll see you all there.”

  “With bells on, Reverend Sarah,” the choir director said as she herded her young singers into the classroom to the right of the dais.

  “I’ll look for you,” Sarah said, making her way quickly to the vestibule. She was glad she’d worn a heavy turtleneck with her navy suit instead of the silk blouse she usually chose for Sunday morning. The cold air from the open doors made her shiver. She curled her left hand inside the wide sleeve of her black robe and began shaking hands and making small talk with the departing congregation.

  This was the best part of her work. This was where she could touch base with her people, take soundings of their health and happiness. She saw that Nellie Phillips, Jonas’s eighty-seven-year-old mother, was having trouble with her arthritis again. She also knew that the old woman would almost certainly be confined to her bed before Christmas by the severity of the condition. She would have to make certain she found time in her schedule to visit at least once a week. Nellie was the last living charter member of the congregation. Her large and close-knit family was still the most active and dedicated in the congregation.

  “Take it easy going down the steps, Nellie,” Sarah cautioned. “They might be a little slippery this morning.” There was a side-door ramp leading to the sanctuary for the use of handicapped members, but Nellie had been coming to church through the front door all her life and wasn’t about to change that habit now, no matter how painful climbing the steps might be. Sarah admired her courage and determination.

  “I’ll be careful.” The old lady chortled. “Don’t want to fall and break my hip now. Too close to Christmas. I’ve got too much baking to do to be laid up.”

  “I hope that means I can expect a plate of your sugar cookies before too many more days?” Sarah asked hopefully, licking her lips in anticipation as she held the old woman’s gnarled hand between her own.

  “I expect it does,” Nellie said and began her slow, laborious way down the steps, a sturdy grandchild on each side. “God bless, Reverend Sarah. I’ll see you next Sunday if I’m still among the living.”

  “God bless, Nellie.”

  When Sarah looked back again Michael Kenton was at her side. “Good morning, Reverend Sarah,” he said. He’d had his hair trimmed, but not by much. It fell in a heavy, dark wave over his forehead. His eyes were nearly as dark, except when they caught the light and turned the deepest hue of sapphire.

  “Welcome, Michael,” she said, aware that one or two of her congregants were still visiting on the church steps, despite the misty drizzle that seeped out of the December sky. “We’re glad you could join us this morning. Have you met Nathan Beckman and Riley Owens?”

  Michael shook hands with the two men. “Welcome to Tyler Fellowship,” Riley intoned, the small frown between his gray eyebrows alerting Sarah to the fact that he wasn’t one hundred percent in favor of the visitor.

  “Good to meet you.” Nathan Beckman’s smile was broad and genuine. “We need some new blood in this church. Come back next week.”

  “I will,” Michael said. The two men nodded and turned away.

  “Why did you come this morning?” Sarah asked in a low voice.

  It was almost the first conversation they’d had since Thanksgiving afternoon. She felt awkward and shy. Why, oh why, had she told him she might be falling in love with him?

  Because it was the truth, and she could no more have stopped herself from speaking than she could have halted the sun in its journey across the sky.

  Michael shrugged. “I decided it was time I made an appearance. I’ve been living on church property for almost six weeks. I figured you’d start catching flak, sooner or later, if I didn’t toe the line.”

  “We don’t force our beliefs on others—” she protested.

  “Your nose is red,” he interrupted, with just a hint of a smile curving the strong line of his mouth.

  Sarah gave up. When Michael didn’t want to talk about himself, he changed the subject, just as he’d done now. “I’m freezing,” she whispered, taking her cue, nodding at Myra Allen and her husband as they passed behind Michael. They nodded at Michael, too, and Myra smiled, a reluctant smile but a good sign.

  Michael returned the nod and smile. “I’m making progress,” he said.

  “They’re good people.”

  “I didn’t say they weren’t. Just prune-faced and hidebound.”

  Since that described Myra and her husband exactly, Sarah couldn’t come up with a reply. He hadn’t been around much since Thanksgiving. And perhaps that was a good thing. She had needed this past week to get her feelings under control again. “I hope you’re not too hungry. I haven’t got anything planned for dinner yet.”

  He shook his head. “No cooking today.”

  “Oh. Have you made other plans?” Sarah nodded at Darryl Phillips, Jonas’s brother, so that he knew she was leaving and he could close up the church behind her. He had most likely already turned down the thermostat and locked the doors leading to the basement stairway, so that none of the children could wander away from Angela before she got things under control in the morning. As Sarah started down the steps with Michael, Darryl began turning off the lights, and before they reached the bottom of the flight she heard the heavy, carved-walnut doors slam shut behind them.

  “Nothing spectacular.” Michael pointed to a big green car, very old and foreign looking, that sat in the driveway. “I’m taking the Bentley out to Timberlake Lodge for Edward Wocheck. I’ve been working on it this week.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were doing more work for the Wochecks.” She watched him looking at the big car and knew how much he had missed doing the work he loved. She looked away quickly so he wouldn’t catch her gazing at him.

  “It was Alyssa—Mrs. Wocheck’s doing, I imagine. I don’t think her husband would have given me the commission without some prodding on her part. But I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. It’s been too long.” Abruptly he changed the subject. “I was wondering if you’d follow me out in your car. We could have Sunday brunch at the lodge. My treat.”

  Sarah hesitated, her heart beating like a drum in her chest. She ought to say no. She’d made a big-enough fool of herself in his arms Thanksgiving day. But she wasn’t strong enough to deny herself the bittersweet pleasure of his company. He looked so good in khaki pants, dark shirt and a rather carelessly knotted tie, visible beneath his familiar peacoat. She’d never seen him wear a tie before, but she liked the way he looked in one. “I’d like that. Let me change my clothes and I’ll be right with you.”

  “Take your time. I have a couple of errands to run.”

  “On Sunday? In that thing?”

  Michael dropped his eyes a moment, then looked up again. “Okay. I want to take her out for a spin, open her up. These cars were built for speed.”

  She could see the suppressed excitement in his glance, hear the rough edge of it in his voice, and she blessed Alyssa Wocheck for providing the opportunity for him to work on the car. “Okay. I’ll meet you at Timberlake in, say, an hour?”

  Michael nodded. “An hour’s fine.”

  Sarah ran her hand across the high fender. The finish was cold and smooth beneath her fingers. “I’ve never ridden in a car like this. What kind did you say it was?”

  A shadow crossed his features for a moment and was quickly gone. “It’s a Bentley. Bentleys were famous English racing cars in the twenties. But this is a newer model. From when the company was taken over by Rolls-Royce. It’s a rich man’s car. A beauty, a touring car not a racing machine, but she can still leave a lot of cars on the road today in her dust.”

  “It’s huge.”

  “And it’s heavy. Built like a tank. We could take a spin around the block if you’d like. I’m sure E
dward Wocheck wouldn’t mind.”

  She laughed. “No thanks. That car is definitely out of my league.”

  “Then I’ll see you at Timberlake.”

  She hesitated a moment, still uncertain where she stood with this enigmatic man. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I’m positive,” he said, leaning so close his warm breath touched her cheek.

  “It—it will only take me a moment to change.”

  They were hidden from the street by the high bulk of the old car. Michael reached out very quickly and touched her hair, smoothing a flyaway strand away from her face. For a moment she thought he was as uncertain as herself. “Sarah—”

  Darryl Phillips appeared from the back of the church and got into his car. Michael dropped his hand and stepped back. “Hurry,” he said gruffly. “I’m starved.”

  * * *

  TIMBERLAKE LODGE WAS quite a place. Michael stood beneath the huge antler chandelier that crowned the wood-paneled lobby and surveyed the big room. A cavernous fieldstone fireplace dominated the far wall. It was flanked by long, comfortable-looking chairs and sofas, and its heat drew him like a magnet. He skirted the big plank table, massed with pots of multicolored poinsettias, and the magnificent Oriental rug it was centered on, intent on warming his hands before the blaze.

  Down a short hallway he could hear the sounds of cutlery and muted conversation. That must be where the restaurant was located. He ought to see about reserving a table before Sarah arrived, but he decided against it. He didn’t want to keep Edward Wocheck waiting, and the woman at the desk had said the lodge owner would be with him very shortly. He’d better wait. He settled himself into a high-backed wing chair at the edge of the grouping around the fireplace and continued to study his surroundings.

  Two couples were drinking coffee in front of the fireplace, discussing plans for the afternoon. They were well dressed and looked well fed and pleased with themselves. Behind the reception desk, a young woman with raven-dark hair and blue eyes conferred with two more members of the staff. A sweeping staircase led to the second floor and a discreet sign pointed the way to meeting rooms and the bar.