She softly closed the door and walked around to open the two huge barn doors, rolling each of them back, one at a time. Grace thought about Michael MacBain and her promise to Mary. Mary had said that Michael was all alone and new to the area. Which in Mary’s book would make the man somewhat of an exile. Could that have attracted her to him initially?

Grace climbed into the truck, chastising herself for being fanciful. Mary had simply found the man she loved. And Grace was sure Michael MacBain was a nice, normal, lovable man who just happened to suffer from the delusion that he’d traveled through time.

Chapter Eight

He was a brute.

And he was standing in the middle of her kitchen. Grace shot a look at the clock on the living-room wall, realized it was nearly midnight, and quickly turned her attention back to the stranger dripping water on her kitchen floor. The freezing rain only added to his frightening appearance as it beat against the broken door behind him. His hands were balled into fists at his side, and his silhouette from the porch light said he was huge, menacing, and mad.

“Mary!” he hollered again, looking around the vacant room. “Dammit, woman. Show yourself.”

It took every ounce of courage she possessed, and the security of the baseball bat in her hand, for Grace to step out from behind the living-room door and face him.

“Mary’s not here,” she told him softly.

The man was a giant. His dripping hair was black, falling below his turned-up collar. His eyes, narrowed dangerously, were a dark, piercing gray. His mouth was thinned by the defensive set of his jaw that was shadowed by a two-day growth of beard. Grounded to her kitchen floor like a statue of granite, he looked formidable. Predatory.

And unmovable.

Grace raised her bat threateningly.

“May I ask who is calling?” she asked, damning her voice for shaking.

Her question momentarily disarmed him, but he quickly recovered. “Michael MacBain is doing the asking. And I’m only asking one more time. Where’s Mary?”

Oh, God. She wasn’t ready for this. She thought she had more time to prepare. Grace darted a look at the tin on the table. What could she tell him?

“She’s…ah…she’s not here, Michael,” she whispered. “I’m her sister, Grace.” She took a step closer, lowering her weapon. “She may have mentioned me to you?”

He didn’t believe her. He strode right past her into the living room. When he didn’t find Mary there, he continued going from one room to the other, even upstairs.

Grace let him search. Her baseball bat wouldn’t stop him, even if she dared to use it against him. The man looked as solid and indestructible as a mountain.

He found Baby on his second pass through the living room. He stopped suddenly and stared down at the child. He looked at her, then back at Baby, his eyes narrowed and his stance stiff.

There was no way around it. She was going to have to just come out and say the words.

“I’m sorry, Michael,” she said, drawing his attention again. “Mary was in an automobile accident six weeks ago,” Grace said, lying about the date of Mary’s death. She didn’t want Michael even to remotely suspect that four-week-old Baby was his son. Grace looked down at the floor, gathering her courage, then looked back at him. “She died. I’m sorry. There was nothing anyone could do.”

He simply stared at her, his face growing deathly pale as he listened silently.

“She was on her way back,” she told him, walking fully into the living room. “She was returning to you.”

He looked back at Baby. “The child?” he asked, his voice dead-toned.

“He’s…he’s mine.”

He was silent so long Grace was afraid he didn’t believe her. Suddenly, he walked away from the makeshift crib she’d made out of the apple crate and strode past her, back into the kitchen. He walked to the broken door and shut it as best he could, then quietly walked back to the kitchen table and sat down.

He bent at the waist, his hands clasped hanging over his knees, staring at the floor. He stayed that way for a good five minutes.

Grace leaned the baseball bat against the wall and walked to the stove, putting the teakettle on the burner. She took down two cups from the cupboard and measured out hot cocoa mix in each of them.

“Did she suffer?” he asked, his voice echoing softly throughout the kitchen. “Did she die instantly, or was she alive in a hospital?”

Grace turned to face him. The dangerous mountain of a man was no longer looking quite so dangerous.

His hands were still hanging over his knees, and he was upright now, but he remained staring at the floor, all the fight suddenly gone from him.

“She lived a day and a half,” she told him truthfully. “And she was conscious. We talked about many things, but Mary talked mostly of you.”

She walked over to him and gently, hesitantly, set her hand on his shoulder. He didn’t move but still stared at a spot between his feet. His muscles, though, were bunched so tightly his back felt like forged steel.

“She asked me to tell you she loved you, Michael. And that she hopes you’ll forgive her for running away in the first place. She said…she said she just needed some time to herself, to think about your marriage proposal.”

She moved around in front of him and knelt down, wanting him to look at her. “She told me your story, Michael, and said that she didn’t care. She was coming home when she had the accident. She was coming to marry you and love you for the rest of your lives.”

His eyes widened suddenly, and his face paled even more. He pulled himself upright, leaning against the back of the chair and away from her. “She told you about me?” he whispered.

“On her deathbed, Michael,” she hurried to assure him, standing up and going to shut off the whistling kettle. “The whole time she was with me, she never said a thing. But when she was dying, she wanted me to know. She asked me to come tell you that she loved you and to…to help you through this time.”

“You said six weeks ago. What took you so long?”

She waved a spoon at the living room. “I was a bit tied up with my son.”

He followed her gaze to the living room, then looked back at her with narrowed eyes. “Where’s your man?” he asked.

“My man?”

“Your son’s father.”

“Oh. I…I don’t have a man.”

He stood up so suddenly that Grace poured boiling water all over the counter. He walked into the living room and returned with Baby.

Grace nearly fell to her knees. Michael MacBain was cradling his son in his arms as if he were the most precious jewel on Earth.

“He’s acting hungry,” he said. “He’s chewing his fist.” He looked at her strangely. “You didn’t hear him fussing?”

Grace tapped the side of her head with the palm of her hand, as if something was bothering her. “My ears seem to be plugged,” she quickly prevaricated. “I think I’m coming down with a cold.”

She turned back to the cupboard and took down a bottle of baby formula before he could see the lie in her eyes. But when she turned to take Baby and feed him, Michael was sitting with Baby on his lap and his hand held out for the bottle.

Damn. She didn’t want him feeding his son. Or holding him. She especially didn’t want him unwrapping Baby and discovering the child had twelve toes. The man might look a bit primitive, but there was intelligence written all over his face. He would know immediately that Baby was his.

“Sit,” he said, indicating the chair across from him. “I’ll feed him.” He looked at her, waiting for the bottle. One corner of his mouth rose, not in a smile but in understanding. “I know new mothers can be protective, but you have nothing to fear from me, Grace,” he said, using her name for the first time. “I had six younger brothers and sisters. I can feed your son.”

She reluctantly handed him the bottle. If she made a scene, he would get suspicious. She sat down and wondered if those six brothers and sisters were eight hundred years dead.