He muttered something as he picked up her pack and shotgun and his own pack.

Then, just to make the day even more delightful, it started to rain.

“Damn. We’ve got to find shelter,” Ben growled.

“Medicine Creek Camps is sixteen miles that way,” she said, pointing behind him. “If you start walking now, you’ll be there before dark.”

He stood looking at her, her gun in his fist, his hands on his hips, both packs slung over his shoulders, and his eyes squinted against the rain. His jacket was open and his shirt was buttoned crooked.

L.L.Bean should be here with their camera now.

“I think I’ll stick around a while, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind. Go away, Mr. Sinclair.”

He lifted her chin again, washing her face—and cooling her blush—she hoped—with rain.

“Let me rephrase that. I am going to help you set up a shelter and then we are going to put on some dry clothes.”

“Michael didn’t pack you a tent?”

He shook his head, his face thoughtful. “Do you think it was an oversight?”

Emma grabbed her backpack off his shoulder and started up the brook. “Knowing Michael, it wasn’t.”

Ben seemed startled she was leaving, and ran to catch up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means he’s paying me back for not letting him skip school for the moose hunt.” She looked over her shoulder and gave him a nasty grin. “Either that, or he thinks a cold, wet night outdoors would do you good.”

“He hauled me out of bed at four this morning and stuck a map in my hand. Your nephew comes by his sadistic nature quite naturally, I see.”

“I’m not the one going around threatening to throttle somebody.” Emma stopped and turned fully to face him. “If you ever threaten to lay a hand on me again, Mr. Sinclair, you won’t live long enough to gloat about it.”

He nodded, his expression serious—but for his laughing eyes.

Chapter Five

W ell, that had beenbrilliant. Attack the woman. In the dirt, no less.

Very brilliant, Sinclair.

How in hell could he have known she’d go off like a keg of gunpowder? She was supposed to be in love with another man!

On his cold, dark trek through the woods this morning, Ben had devised a plan to find out who the love of Emma’s life was. He’d intended to kiss her so that she’d slap his face and tell him that her heart was already taken. She was supposed to yell the bastard’s name and threatened to have him kill Ben for making advances.

Instead, the little minx had blindsided him.

Thank God that rutting bull moose had made all that noise. For one short second, Ben had known exactly how the horny beast felt.

Now Emma was mad enough to kill him. On top of nearly taking her right there on the ground, he could have gotten her pregnant. He hoped like hell there were no more Sands sisters. At this rate, he was liable to found a dynasty on them.

Ben balled up his L.L.Bean shirt and threw it across the shelter Little Miss Wonder Guide had erected from a tarp and tree branches. It kept out the wet, but not the wind.

“Dammit, it’s snowing!”

“It does that in Maine sometimes,” came an equally disgruntled voice from the other side of the tarp.

He tore into his pack and pulled out another shirt, this one flannel. He scowled at the logo stitched on the pocket, a deer leaping for joy. Ben crammed his arms in the sleeves before his shivering made the task impossible. “Are you sitting out there trying to get pneumonia, or is your stubbornness keeping you warm?”

A green rubberized cape with a head poking out of it popped into his line of sight. “It will be a lot warmer with hot tea in our stomachs. You want to come out here and watch for the water to boil?”

She disappeared before Ben could answer. Fine. Let the fool woman catch her death. What did he care?

That brought Ben back to his problem, and his backfired plan.

He’d seen the disgust in her eyes. If looks could kill, he’d be dead. “Couldn’t we have pitched this tarp near one of your hot springs? Damnit’s cold.”

Two steaming cups preceded two small hands into the shelter, followed by a billowing green poncho sporting huge flakes of snow. The flakes weren’t melting because Emma’s smile could freeze a penguin.

“You’re welcome to move on, if you like. The nearest hot spring is about three thousand miles west.” As angry as she obviously was, she was careful when she handed him the hot cup of tea.

Ben sighed as he blew on his tea. “Let’s call a truce. This shelter is too small for a battlefield.”

“I’m sure Mikey packed you a poncho, Mr. Sinclair. And if you turn that map upside down, you should be able to follow it back the way you came.”

“I thought you had six cabins of moose hunters arriving today. Shouldn’t you be seeing to your business?”

“Mikey will settle them in. And I’ll be there early tomorrow to take them out.”

“Why do you call him Mikey? It doesn’t quite fit.”

Although it was small, Ben finally got a smile from her. “To remind him that he’s not a grown-up yet, and that I’m older and hopefully a bit smarter than he is.”

“He calls you ‘bossy lady’ sometimes.”

“Just when he’s pissed about something.”

“He called you that the night you found me.”

She held her tea up near her face, letting the steam warm her. “Every so often, his confidence slips. He had never landed on anything like Smokey Bog without me being in the seat beside him.”

Ben suddenly didn’t need the tea for warmth, as his blood began to boil. “You put my son in a situation that could have killed him?”

“No, Mr. Sinclair. Michael is an excellent pilot. I didn’t have any doubts; he did.” She shot him a grin. “And he forgot them once he got down to business.”

“You were nervous. I saw how tense you were.”

“I was worried about my plane,” she shot back. “Pontoons are expensive.”

He was sorely tempted to kiss her again.

Ben realized she was scowling at him and remembered he should be scowling back. “Plane floats are more precious than a boy’s life?”

She looked immensely satisfied with herself; apparently convinced she was keeping the battle lines drawn. No cold war for this woman. She would go down fighting to the bitter end.

It was a survivor’s defense, one Ben imagined she had developed to survive all that she’d lost. She and Kelly had lost their mother when they were very young; then at fourteen she’d lost her father rather violently. And at just nineteen, she had suddenly found herself alone to raise a five-year-old boy. Oh yes. Emma Sands was definitely a survivor.

He was going to have to sneak up on her tonight.

While she slept.

While her shotgun was out of reach.

And he would not lose control this time. He would kiss her once, just to prove to himself that he could. He wouldn’t jump all over her, or get lost in that luscious body that could drive a man to insanity.

Ben felt himself get hard just remembering the feel of her beneath him.

“I’m turning in for the night, Miss Sands. I’m not used to getting up at four in the morning and then walking half the day over half the mountains in the state. Good night.”

He crawled into the sleeping bag Michael had packed him and zipped it up to his neck, hiding the evidence of his lustful thoughts.

The soft glow of the battery lantern cast Emma in a halo of deceptive warmth. Shadows danced beside her on the tarp, which was beginning to sag with the weight of wet snow. The forest had grown eerily quiet, and Ben imagined their little shelter looked like a cocoon of peace in these woods his son called home.