Megan MacKeage swiped at her flushed face and met Winter’s tender smile with a fierce glare.

“You can say that when your heart gets broken,” Megan hissed, “and you come running home because the love of your life walked out when you told him you’re having his baby.”

Winter took hold of Megan’s shoulders and leaned close. “I love you, Meg. Mama and Papa love you. Rose loves you. Everyone here in Pine Creek loves you. That one stupid jerk in a thousand loving people doesn’t is not worth what you’re putting yourself through. Wayne Ferris is a conniving weasel who’s too stupid to appreciate what a wonderful woman you are. You have to let him go, Meg, and focus on your child. Being depressed and crying all the time will make your unborn bairn think you don’t want it.”

Megan moved her gaze past Winter’s shoulder, looking at nothing, her lower lip quivering and her eyes misting again. “I thought he loved me,” she whispered, looking back at Winter through eyes filled with despair. “He said he loved me.”

“He loved what you could do for his career,” Winter told her just as softly, gently squeezing her shoulders. “But camping out on the tundra for months at a time does not mix well with babies. That Wayne chose—”

The tiny bell on the gallery door tinkled, drawing everyone’s attention. Just as Winter began to turn, she noticed that Rose was staring at the door in utter disbelief. Megan’s eyes had gone equally as wide, her jaw slack. Winter spun fully around and actually took a step back. Who wouldn’t feel a punch in the gut when finding herself in the presence of such incredibly virile…maleness? The man was just too stunning for words.

Which seemed to be an immediate problem for Winter, as she couldn’t even respond when the tall, handsome stranger nodded at her—though she did hear Rose sigh, and she did feel Megan poke her in the back.

“Ah, may I help you?” Winter finally said.

Enigmatic, tiger gold eyes met hers, and it took all of Winter’s willpower not to take another step back. The man was standing just inside her spacious gallery, yet he seemed to fill up the entire space.

“Is the painting in the window by a local artist?” he asked.

The deep, rich timbre of his voice sent a shudder coursing through Winter, and another sharp poke in her back started her breathing again. “Ah, yes,” she said. “She lives right here in Pine Creek.”

Winter waved a hand at the east wall of her gallery. “Most of the paintings are hers. Everything we sell is by local artists,” she finished in a near whisper, unable to stop staring at his beautifully rugged, tanned face.

He simply stared back, his eyes crinkled in amusement.

“Feel free to look around,” she added with another halfhearted wave, thankful that her voice sounded normal this time. “I can answer any questions you have.”

“Thank you,” he said with a slight nod, before turning to the wall of paintings.

As soon as he looked away, Winter spun around to face Megan and Rose. Neither woman noticed her warning glare, however, as they were too busy gawking at the man. Worried that he’d turn around and catch them, Winter grabbed them both by an arm and hustled them ahead of her into the back room.

“Cut it out,” she quietly hissed. “You’re being rude.”

“Did you see how broad his shoulders are?” Rose whispered, craning around to look back at the gallery.

Winter moved the three of them farther away from the door. “Rose Dolan Brewer, you’re a happily married woman with two kids. You shouldn’t be noticing other men’s shoulders.”

Rose smiled. “I can still look, as long as I don’t touch.”

“Did you see his hair?” Megan whispered, her eyes still wide, not a trace of a tear anywhere in sight. “He’s wearing a suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, but he’s got a ponytail.

What sort of businessman has long hair?”

“And those eyes,” Rose interjected before Winter could respond. “They’re as rich as gold bullion. My knees went weak when he looked at you, Winter.”

“That does it. Out,” Winter said, crowding them toward the door that connected the back office of her gallery with Dolan’s Outfitter Store. “You’re going to scare off my most promising customer today.”

Rose snorted and stepped into her store, combing her fingers through her short brown hair. “I doubt anything could scare that man,” she muttered, smoothing down her blouse as she turned to Winter.

“Send him over to my store after,” she said with a cheeky grin. “I’ll, ah…fit him into more suitable clothes for around here.”

“Do you suppose he came in on that plane that flew over?” Megan asked. “We saw it bank for a landing at the airport. It looked like a private jet.” Megan sighed. “My God, he’s handsome. Maybe I should stay and help you set out the figures Talking Tom brought in this afternoon.”

Winter didn’t have the heart to remind Megan that she had sworn off men—handsome or otherwise—when she’d come home from her fieldwork in Canada last month, abandoned and two months pregnant. It was rather nice to see her sister’s face flushed from something other than tears.

“Thanks,” Winter said with a tender smile, “but I think I’ll wait and put out Tom’s carvings tomorrow.”

Megan took one last look toward the gallery door, sighed, then followed Rose down the aisle of camping equipment. Winter softly closed the connecting door, ran her fingers through her own mass of long red curls, straightened to her full five-foot-six height with a calming breath, and headed back into the gallery.

Mr. Tiger Eyes was still facing the wall. He had worked his way down the wall to a painting hanging toward the front of the store, his arms folded over his broad chest and his chin resting on one of his large, tanned fists. The pose pulled the material of his expensive suit tightly across a set of impressively wide shoulders. He glanced only casually at Winter when she stepped up to the counter, then went back to studying the painting.

He was looking at a large watercolor she had painted last spring, which she had titled Moon Watchers. It was a nighttime scene set deep in a mountain forest awash with moonlight. Three young bear cubs were gathered around a thick old tree stump, their harried mother catching a quick nap as they played in the shadows. One of the cubs was perched precariously on top of the stump, its tiny snout raised skyward as it brayed at the large silver disk in the star-studded sky, its siblings watching with enchanted expressions on their moon-bathed faces. And if one studied the painting long enough, he or she would eventually notice all of the other nocturnal creatures hidden in the shadows, curiously watching the young bears in the moonlight.

It was a painting that usually drew the attention of women more than men, with its endearingly familial subject and somewhat playful and mystical mood.

Winter slid her gaze to the man standing in front of it.

He was at least as tall as her cousin Robbie MacBain, and Robbie was six-foot-seven in his stocking feet. This man’s shoulders were equally as broad, his legs as long and muscled beneath that perfectly tailored suit, his hands just as large and blunt and powerful looking. He had the body of an athlete, which said that whoever he was, he didn’t spend all of his time sitting in boardrooms or shuffling papers.

Like Megan, Winter found herself questioning his choice of hairstyle if he truly was the successful businessman he appeared to be. His soft brown hair was thick and smooth, neatly brushed off his face and tied at the nape of his neck with a thin piece of leather. It wasn’t overlong; Winter guessed that when loose, it would just brush his shoulders.

She suddenly realized she was staring just as rudely as Megan and Rose had been. With a silent sigh, Winter dropped her gaze to the small piece of paper that Tom had tossed down on the counter when he’d brought in his latest batch of wooden figures. It was a short list, Winter realized as she tried to focus on something other than her customer. Only five carvings this time, written in very neat, tiny black letters.