Only this time, his reason for traveling it had changed.

Chapter Nine

Libby repositioned the bag of iceon her knee, then shuffled through the papers on her lap until she came to the page of things she had to buy. She crossed the truck off the list and shuffled again until she found the page of things she had to do. She made a note to register her new truck, then went back to her list of things to buy. She studied it, thought about it, and crossed off the computer.

She needed to prioritize, and a computer wasn’t important right now. An ATV was. Two helmets were. Clothes—warm winter clothes. And birth control.

Libby tapped her pencil against her lips and stared into the fire, wondering if there was a doctor in Pine Creek. She hadn’t been on the pill since med school. And she had to find something soon, if she had read that look in Michael’s eyes correctly this afternoon when she agreed to have an affair with him.

Libby frowned. She couldn’t picture Michael using a condom. Not because he was callous or unconcerned, but maybe condoms didn’t fit with his concept of living according to the laws of nature. And he’d had a son without having a wedding first, so Libby decided she would be responsible for their birth control.

She looked back at her list of things to do. First thing tomorrow, she had to go to the post office and pick up the jewelry-making equipment she’d mailed to herself, now that she had a truck to load it in. And while she was in town, she’d take Ian’s advice and check with the Dolans about renting their storefront.

Libby smiled to herself, thinking how lucky she was to have a ski resort right next-door.

Her studio should do okay there, since she imagined beautiful Pine Lake attracted as many tourists in the summer as TarStone Mountain did in the winter.

Maybe she would take up skiing. She was definitely going to try snowmobiling. She’d seen several sporting goods stores on her drive up from Bangor and couldn’t wait to try one of the colorful, sleek, powerful-looking machines.

Part of her new life plan was to live a bit more recklessly. Not stupidly, though. She’d wear a helmet and get the proper instructions, and she would ride safely and stay on the marked trails. But it was time to expand her world to include some of the more exciting things in life.

Like having an affair with a sexy mountain man? Heck, Libby couldn’t think of anything more exciting than messing up her sheets with Michael MacBain.

She leaned her head back on the couch and closed her eyes on a sigh. She had done a good job of keeping herself occupied these last few days—of keeping her mind off her problem.

Or, to give credit where it was due, Michael MacBain had done a good job of keeping away the memory of what had taken place in her operating room an entire lifetime ago.

She had gotten her mother to check discreetly on her patients before she left California.

Esther Brown and Jamie Garcia had walked out of the hospital that day, neither of them the worse for the wear of their ordeal.

No, she was the one who had come away wounded.

Not mortally but definitely shell-shocked.

Libby lifted her head and looked down at the towel of ice on her knee. If it was true—if she really could heal people by will alone—could she heal herself?

And if she could, should she? Wasn’t that… unethical or something? Was there an unwritten code for people like her that said they couldn’t practice on themselves?

“Physician, heal thyself,” Libby quoted aloud, waving her hand over her knee like a magic wand.

“So I should call you Dr. Hart, it seems.”

Libby bolted off the couch, her surprise erupting in a scream as she spun toward her intruder.

Michael winced but didn’t move.

“Goddammit, Michael!” she shouted, throwing her towel of ice at him. He ducked to the side, and the towel hit the wall behind him, ice cubes scattering around the room like shattering glass.

Michael straightened, his expression resigned.

“I’m changing the locks on the door.”

“That won’t stop me.”

“You scared the hell out of me, Michael.”

“I thought screaming might be like the hiccups. That a good fright might cure ya.” His features suddenly hardened. “But it seems you were trying to cure yourself, Dr. Libby Hart.”

Libby snapped her gaze to the third button on Michael’s shirt and rubbed her hands on her thighs in an attempt to calm her racing heart. Finally, and with a shuddering breath, she made her decision and raised her eyes to his.

“Actually, it’s Dr. Elizabeth Hart.”

His stance didn’t change. His eyes did—they darkened and narrowed and cut into her like the razor edge of a scalpel.

“What kind of doctor?”

“A trauma surgeon.”

“That explains a lot.”

“It doesn’t explain a damn thing.”

“It explains everything,” he countered, still not moving, still piercing her with steel-dark eyes. “Like why you feel so strongly about helmets. And,” he continued more forcefully when she tried to speak, “why you act decisively and from your gut. A trauma surgeon would be used to making quick and instinctive decisions. Tell me if I’m wrong, Elizabeth, in thinking that you insist on being in control of whatever situation you find yourself in.”

“Of course I do. That’s what a surgeon does.”

“Aye. I understand now, this authority you carry around you like a protective shield, which you’ve created to keep yourself insulted from your patients—a shield that also keeps you safe from the rest of the world.”

“I’m not an ice queen.”

“Nay,” he softly agreed. “You are pure fire, Elizabeth. And that scares the hell out of you, because something happened in California a week ago that shattered your control.”

“I’m not a doctor anymore. And I’m Libby now, not Elizabeth.”

Michael finally moved. He walked around the couch and stood in front of her, and Libby craned her neck, refusing to break eye contact with him.

Michael reached out and picked her up before she could react. He stood her on the hearth so she was at eye level with him, then stepped away and clasped his hands behind his back.

“You don’t spend your entire life training to be a surgeon and then simply turn your back and walk away. What happened a week ago, Libby?”

“Some-something I can’t explain.”

“Try,” he gently entreated.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I… I can’t say it out loud, Michael.”

He unclasped his hands and cupped the sides of her face, using his thumbs to brush away tears Libby hadn’t even realized were running down her cheeks. “It’s okay, lass.

Your fear will find its own voice when you’re ready,” he softly assured her, bringing his mouth close to hers.

Libby eagerly met his kiss, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and clung to him with the desperation of a leaf facing a storm. She opened her mouth and tasted him, felt his vitality, and was consumed by the strength of his response.

He smelled of wood smoke, of mountain air and the crisp autumn night he’d walked through to get there. The man was solid granite under the flannel of his shirt, and Libby dug her fingers into his shoulders as she canted her head to deepen their kiss. He completely engulfed her, both physically and emotionally, and Libby’s desperation slowly and quietly turned to passion.

His tongue explored her mouth while his hands sought out the curve of her backside, sending shivers of delight along the path of his touch. Libby pressed her body closer, whimpered when he lifted her against him, and trailed her lips over his chin and down to the base of his throat, glorying in the heat and smell and taste of his skin.

She felt as if she was floating, and it took Libby a minute to realize that Michael had sat down on the couch. She found herself straddling his lap and couldn’t stop herself from moving against him. Heat shot through her at the intimate contact and settled deep in the pit of her stomach. She trembled with urgency as she unbuttoned his shirt.