stiffly. âYou want me to stay away, fine. I will stay awayâafter my children decorate your Christmas tree. You said they could and I donât want to hurt or disappoint them. Where is the key to the shed so I can find the Christmas tree?â
Marshall flinched. He wanted to tell her he was sorry for being such a bastard, to admit that, despite what heâd said, he was grateful for her help and touched that her children were being so kind to him when he certainly didnât deserve it.
He really wanted to tug her into his lap and kiss away her glower, which he knew was as impossible as him getting up and marching across the house to find what she wanted.
âKitchen, top drawer left of the sink,â he finally said. âYou canât miss it. Itâs on a blue carabiner and marked shed .â
âThank you.â
She said the words in a tone as barbed as fishhooks, then turned and marched from the room, leaving behind that spring wildflower scent.
He frowned after her, feeling even more like a bastard, if that were possible.
She had done nothing to deserve his foul temper except try to make life a little easier for him. It wasnât her fault he was frustrated and sore and beginning to long for things he knew he couldnât have.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A NDIE QUICKLY FOUND the carabiner with the shed key hooked to it and hurried out to Wynâs beautiful stone patio that bordered the Hellâs Fury River.
In summer, this was a lovely, tranquil spot where one could sit and listen to the river and enjoy the view of the mountains beyond.
The snow hadnât been cleared here. Because the patio faced north and was shaded by the house and the bordering trees, it seemed as if each wintry storm that had hit since before Thanksgiving had left a few inches behind that never had a chance to melt in the sunshine.
Even though she wore boots, it was still a struggle to crunch across the foot-deep snow to the garden shed. She didnât mind. The exertion took her mind off the emotions roiling through her.
When she reached the shed, she paused to catch her breath. Deep belly breathing had been a big part of her therapy this summer and she still found it immensely useful.
She closed her eyes and focused on expanding and contracting her diaphragm while she listened to the riverâs song and the scrape and rustle of tree branches in the brisk wind, heavy with the promise of more snow.
When she opened her eyes a few moments later, she felt much more centered. At least she no longer wanted to scoop up a bucket of this crusty weeks-old snow and dump it on a certain frustrating sheriff.
She didnât lose her temper very often. Growing up in the household her grandfather ruled with harsh words that hit much harder than iron fists had taught her young to learn how to contain any excessive emotions. She had always rather prided herself on her self-control, her ability to pause and think before she responded instinctively to a given situation with anger and words she couldnât take back.
For the first time in a long while, she had almost let that control slip away and had come dangerously close to giving Marshall Bailey a big, angry piece of her mind.
Did he seriously think she had nothing better to do than traipse back and forth between their houses, making up excuses to drop in on him?
Remembered hurt sliced through her again, a hurt she didnât understand. He hadnât exactly made it a secret that he didnât want her help. She supposed she had thoughtâhopedâthat perhaps they were becoming friends.
She had to ask herself why his words seemed to cut so deeply. Did she really care what the sheriff thought of her? She barely knew the man. Until a few days ago, she would have said he made her nervous and uncomfortable. He had always seemed a cold, hard man.
Somehow she had convinced herself there was something more beneath the surface. She thought she had seen glimpses of
Marshall flinched. He wanted to tell her he was sorry for being such a bastard, to admit that, despite what heâd said, he was grateful for her help and touched that her children were being so kind to him when he certainly didnât deserve it.
He really wanted to tug her into his lap and kiss away her glower, which he knew was as impossible as him getting up and marching across the house to find what she wanted.
âKitchen, top drawer left of the sink,â he finally said. âYou canât miss it. Itâs on a blue carabiner and marked shed .â
âThank you.â
She said the words in a tone as barbed as fishhooks, then turned and marched from the room, leaving behind that spring wildflower scent.
He frowned after her, feeling even more like a bastard, if that were possible.
She had done nothing to deserve his foul temper except try to make life a little easier for him. It wasnât her fault he was frustrated and sore and beginning to long for things he knew he couldnât have.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A NDIE QUICKLY FOUND the carabiner with the shed key hooked to it and hurried out to Wynâs beautiful stone patio that bordered the Hellâs Fury River.
In summer, this was a lovely, tranquil spot where one could sit and listen to the river and enjoy the view of the mountains beyond.
The snow hadnât been cleared here. Because the patio faced north and was shaded by the house and the bordering trees, it seemed as if each wintry storm that had hit since before Thanksgiving had left a few inches behind that never had a chance to melt in the sunshine.
Even though she wore boots, it was still a struggle to crunch across the foot-deep snow to the garden shed. She didnât mind. The exertion took her mind off the emotions roiling through her.
When she reached the shed, she paused to catch her breath. Deep belly breathing had been a big part of her therapy this summer and she still found it immensely useful.
She closed her eyes and focused on expanding and contracting her diaphragm while she listened to the riverâs song and the scrape and rustle of tree branches in the brisk wind, heavy with the promise of more snow.
When she opened her eyes a few moments later, she felt much more centered. At least she no longer wanted to scoop up a bucket of this crusty weeks-old snow and dump it on a certain frustrating sheriff.
She didnât lose her temper very often. Growing up in the household her grandfather ruled with harsh words that hit much harder than iron fists had taught her young to learn how to contain any excessive emotions. She had always rather prided herself on her self-control, her ability to pause and think before she responded instinctively to a given situation with anger and words she couldnât take back.
For the first time in a long while, she had almost let that control slip away and had come dangerously close to giving Marshall Bailey a big, angry piece of her mind.
Did he seriously think she had nothing better to do than traipse back and forth between their houses, making up excuses to drop in on him?
Remembered hurt sliced through her again, a hurt she didnât understand. He hadnât exactly made it a secret that he didnât want her help. She supposed she had thoughtâhopedâthat perhaps they were becoming friends.
She had to ask herself why his words seemed to cut so deeply. Did she really care what the sheriff thought of her? She barely knew the man. Until a few days ago, she would have said he made her nervous and uncomfortable. He had always seemed a cold, hard man.
Somehow she had convinced herself there was something more beneath the surface. She thought she had seen glimpses of
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