Libby tried to reason with her unsettling thoughts. As long as she kept her gift a secret, she was safe. All anyone in Pine Creek needed to know was that she was a jewelry maker from California. Michael and Grace would keep her secret, she was sure. Neither one of them seemed overly bothered by her unwillingness to confide in them about her past.

And the fact that she trusted them amazed Libby.

She had learned, as early as med school, to be careful around the people she worked with. Oh, most in medicine were dedicated, but no matter how sincere their intentions, workplace politics were always a factor.

Like her competition with James Kessler over the grant they both wanted. Money and prestige always complicated things.

Their fathers had been colleagues and good friends, and Libby and James had grown up knowing each other. Though James had been two years ahead of Libby, they’d gone to medical school together and had both found positions at Cedar-Sinai.

And they were both after the same grant to develop a new method of minimally invasive microsurgery.

Or they were, up until last week, when the bottom had dropped out of Libby’s world.

Now she just wanted… hell, she didn’t know what she wanted. Peace? Understanding?

Her life back?

Or did she want a new life here?

If she wanted an answer to that question, it was time she started exploring the possibility. And she would begin with Dolan’s Outfitter Store and go from there.

Libby put the truck in reverse and backed up. She turned in the yard and started toward the road but slammed on her brakes when a large tractor-trailer rig, loaded to the sky with logs, came racing past the end of her driveway. The driver, apparently not the least bit worried about sharing the road with anyone, was looking at her, smiling and waving.

He raised one arm and pulled on the air horn, giving Libby a friendly, deafening honk that trailed after him in a cloud of dust long after he’d vanished.

Just as soon as she saw Michael again, she was going to stand on a chair and apologize to the man. He hadn’t been kidding when he warned her about the dangers of her new home.

Maybe she should bake him something. A cake or a batch of cookies. Or dinner. She could cook a nice dinner and invite Michael and Robbie and John Bigelow over tomorrow.

Libby reached into her purse and found her list of things to buy. She added a large roasting hen and smiled in satisfaction. She’d show the packaged bird to her girls in the coop before she cooked it and warn them that if they didn’t quit pecking her, they’d be joining it in the oven.

With her plans firmly made, Libby checked for traffic up and down the road and finally headed into town.

“You gotta be looking in the kids’ section, missy,” Harry Dolan repeated for the third time, trying to lead her toward the back wall of the store. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna fit you over here.”

Libby refused to budge. She was too busy rolling up the sleeves on the blaze orange sweatshirt she was wearing. But the price tag, as big as a book and probably costing more than the garment it was advertising, kept getting in the way.

Harry’s wife, Irisa, was trying to help. Libby could only make out every other word the woman said, and those were so heavily accented that she couldn’t decide if Irisa were trying to help or trying to get her to take the sweatshirt off.

Dammit, she was not shopping in the kids’ section. She was old enough to have children who should be shopping there.

“This should fit,” Dwayne Dolan said, walking up from the back wall with a sweatshirt in his hand. “And it’s got a hood just like that one.”

“I don’t want a sweatshirt that fits,” Libby stubbornly explained. “I want to layer it over a sweater.”

Dwayne stopped in front of her and held the sweatshirt against her shoulders, completely ignoring her protest. His unwavering smile was crooked behind a week’s growth of whiskers, and he smelled funny. Like pickles or something.

“You can still layer this one, Miss Hart,” he said, tossing the sweatshirt over his shoulder and reaching for the zipper on the one she was wearing.

Libby stepped back, and Irisa came to her rescue, shooing the two men away, pulling the smaller sweatshirt off Dwayne’s shoulder as he left.

“I think I know,” Irisa said in broken English, nodding sympathetically. “Not girl.

Woman.”

Libby conceded to Irisa’s smile. She pushed up the sleeves on the sweatshirt she was wearing to find her hands and unzipped it and took it off. The damn thing came down to her knees, and she knew she looked ridiculous. So she slipped into the smaller one that Irisa was holding out for her, zipped it up, and wiggled her arms to make sure it was roomy enough.

She was looking at herself in the mirror when Irisa plopped a blaze orange hat onto her head. Libby’s humor quickly returned, and she laughed out loud.

Now she really looked ridiculous.

As if she should buy a gun and go shoot something.

The hat was made of felt and had a brim all the way around it, with a matching orange ribbon that added a bit of style. Libby tugged on the front, giving the hat a rakish tilt.

It was pulled from her head and replaced by another, this one a northwoods version of a baseball cap. It was orange and black checkered, with ear flaps and a strap that fastened under her chin. The entire cap was lined with sheepskin and felt as warm as toast.

It made her look like Elmer Fudd.

Irisa plopped another hat onto Libby’s head, this one knit. It was also blaze orange and had a small pom-pom on top. But it was pulled from her head just as Libby was trying to adjust it and replaced by the felt hat.

Libby looked up into the mirror and saw a red wool jacket standing behind her, covering a broad chest. She recognized the jacket. And the chest.

Libby whirled and came nose to button with Michael. She looked up, having to push her hat back in order to smile at him.

He smiled back. “Now ya look like a Mainer,” he told her, tapping the end of her nose.

“All you’re lacking is a gun.”

“I heard a shot this morning, up on TarStone.”

“Aye. That was me, lass.”

Libby stepped back in surprise. “You were shooting at a deer? But why?”

His smile disappeared. “So we can eat this winter.”

“And did you… was your hunt successful?”

His eyes softened at her obvious distress. “Aye. But you needn’t worry, Libby. It was a clean kill. The buck was dead before he even hit the ground.”

It took all of her willpower not to flinch. And a good deal of effort to smile.

Michael reached up and gently brushed her cheek with his knuckles. “It’s a natural act, lass,” he said softly. “Man is a hunter, and deer are prey. And that’s a fact society will never change, no matter how civilized we think we’ve become.”

“I know. And I eat meat like most people. It’s just that hunting is so… it’s so direct.”

“Given a choice, would you rather be a steer in a stock-yard or a deer running wild and free?” he asked. “If you’re going to end up on someone’s table anyway, which life would you choose?”

“The deer.”

“Aye. So would I. And so would the buck I killed this morning, Libby. Please try to remember that when you bite into one of his steaks this winter. Have ya ever had venison?”

“No. Will you give me a steak?”

“Aye. And a roast or two, if ya want.”

“Oh,” Libby said, suddenly remembering her earlier decision. “I’m cooking a chicken for supper tomorrow and thought you and Robbie and John would like to come over and share it with me.”

For the life of her, Libby could not read the expression that suddenly came into Michael’

s eyes. “Are ya stuffing the chicken?” he asked thickly, stepping closer. “And making gravy and mashed potatoes?”