“Because I wanted to.”

Now, there was an answer that fit Greylen MacKeage very well.

She had to admit it had felt deliciously good to have his mouth on hers.

“What would you have done if I said I was married?”

The corner of his mouth lifted into a half-grin. “I’d have kissed you anyway. Any man who would let his woman get into this mess doesn’t deserve her. And that makes you available to my way of thinking.” He took her chin in his hand. “It’s a moot point, though, isn’t it, Grace? Baby’s father is not in the picture.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because women with husbands or lovers don’t come running home four weeks after childbirth.”

Well, she couldn’t very well argue the point, now, could she? She didn’t have a husband or lover, but then, she hadn’t just given birth to Baby, either.

“Are you ready to leave now?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s see if we can get Baby transferred to my chest without waking him.”

It was no longer just her knees shaking; her whole body was trembling, and it wasn’t from the cold. The heat, maybe. She was feeling unusually warm. Did raging hormones produce heat?

Grace carefully released her death grip on the plane and unzipped her jacket. She peeled it off and relished the fresh, cold, wet air that struck her. She turned around and presented her back to Grey.

“You’ve got to undo the buckles on my shoulders,” she told him. “If Baby’s not in it, I can usually pull it off over my head. But we’ll have to adjust them anyway.” She lifted Baby up slightly to lessen the tension on the buckles. “Okay. I’m holding him. Undo it.”

Grey deftly unfastened the straps, lifted Baby off her chest, and placed him against his own. Grace moved to his back and discovered two problems. One, it was too dark for her to see what she was doing. And two, she couldn’t reach the buckles even if she could see. The man stood a good deal taller than her five-foot-four-inch frame.

“Ah, could you maybe get down on your knees?” she asked.

Grey craned his head around to look at her, and she made out the slash of his grin. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think.”

He lowered himself, not to his knees but hunkered down on his haunches instead. “Is this okay?” he asked.

“Your knees would be lower.”

“Now, lass. I’ve learned a man best not get on his knees for a woman the very first day. It doesn’t bode well for his future.”

“You called me lass. Are you Scottish?” she asked, alarmed. She had thought by his slight accent that he might be Irish. Was he related to Michael MacBain?

“Born and bred a Scot,” he admitted.

“How long have you lived in America?”

“Oh, nearly three years.”

“But your accent is so…so…American.”

“Because I am an American now.”

“You’ve deliberately worked to change your accent? But why? What’s wrong with being a Scot and having a Scottish accent?” she asked as she worked on fastening the buckles.

“I’ve also learned the phrase ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans.’ I live here now. I intend to speak like one of you.”

Grace laughed as she pushed at his back to let him know the job was done. “Then you’ve got to drop your final consonants a bit more if you want to sound like a Mainer.”

He stood up and turned to face her. “You don’t have a Maine accent.”

“I haven’t lived here for fourteen years. It was washed out of me in college.”

Grace was tempted to ask him if he knew Michael MacBain, but then she thought better of it. She wasn’t ready to acknowledge the man, not even in her own mind. Not yet. She would wait until she was back in her old house and had recovered from this little adventure.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked.

“Yes. Just let me get my bag.”

“It’s not the heavy one, is it?”

“No. I repacked everything. I’m only bringing Baby’s food and diapers, my bare computer, and one or two personal things. The computer’s not heavy. It was the satellite link and other equipment that weighed so much.”

She reached into the plane and pulled out the bag, clutching it to her when he tried to take it. “Ah…I can carry this. It’s really not that heavy.”

He planted his feet wide and put his hands on his hips. “Will you tell me what’s so godly important about that bag that you can’t let it out of your sight? Since I met you, you’ve done nothing but guard it the way a drunkard guards his wine.”

Grace tightened her hold on the bag and lifted her chin, refusing to give in on this point. She didn’t care that the man looked big, even scary, and determined enough to stop a freight train. She was carrying her own bag.

“Personal things,” she told him. “Precious things.”

“There’s nothing precious enough to risk your neck over. So what’s in the bag, Grace? Thousands of dollars? Illegal drugs?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“My sister.”

Chapter Five

Grey could only stare at the trembling woman standing in front of him. Had she just said her sister?

“Mary? Your sister, Mary Sutter?” he finally asked in a strangled whisper, hoping like hell he’d heard wrong.

She nodded.

He stared at her in silence. “Mary’s dead?” he asked, finally comprehending.

She nodded again.

Grey took a step back and leaned against the side of the plane, bending over until he supported himself with his hands on his knees. “When?” he asked, staring at the ground. He looked up at her, just barely able to make out her stark white face in the growing darkness. “How?”

“An automobile accident,” she said.

He lowered his gaze to the bag she was clutching with a fierceness that was heartbreaking. “What do you mean, Mary’s in there?”

He saw her chin rise again. “I had her cremated, to bring her home. She’s in a tin in this bag.”

He straightened and rubbed both his hands over his face, several times, trying to wash away the picture of Mary Sutter, so happy, vibrant, and contented with life, now just a handful of ash. “Damn.” He looked at Grace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“You said you knew Mary?”

“Yes. We bought eggs and herbs from her. She was a good neighbor and person.”

“Yes, she was.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, unable to think of anything else to say. He walked over to her and held out his hand.

“Let me carry the bag, Grace. I’ll be careful with it. You just worry about keeping your feet beneath you.

The going will be rough.”

She hesitated but finally handed him the bag. Grey took it gently, unable to believe that he would be carrying Mary Sutter down off this mountain, so close to the home she lived in just five short months ago.

“Has she been with you these last months?” he asked, not turning to leave. There was one other detail he wanted to discuss with her, but he was not in a hurry to broach the subject. Not now. Not after learning that Grace was grieving her sister’s death.

“Yes. She was down visiting me.”

“I’m glad you had some time together.”

“I am, too.”

“Ah…did you happen to change your shoes while waiting for me to get back?” he asked then, deftly slipping his question into the conversation.

“My shoes? No. Why?”

“You’re wearing sneakers, Grace. You don’t have any boots?”

“No,” she said, ducking her head. “Tell you the truth, I completely forgot it was the dead of winter here. I never even thought of boots.”

Damn. Well, he was about to find out just how gutsy, or how squeamish, Grace Sutter really was.

“Then I’d like for you to wear Mark’s boots, Grace.”

“What?” she asked on an indrawn breath, turning to look at the pine tree where the dead pilot lay.

“I’m talking about the difference between making it down off this mountain or not being able to walk because your feet are wet and frozen. Can you do that, Grace? If I get them for you, will you put them on?”

She turned back to look at him. He could see white completely surrounding her beautiful blue eyes, and he was sorry for having to put her through this. But it was necessary.