Six
Pandora, sleeping soundly, was awakened at seven in, the morning when Michael dropped on her bed. The mattress bounced. He snuggled his head into the pillow beside her and shut his eyes.
"Sonofabitch," he grumbled.
Pandora sat up, remembered she was naked and grabbed for the sheets. "Michael! You're supposed to be in California. What are you doing in my bed?"
"Getting horizontal for the first time in twenty-four hours."
"Well, do that in your own bed," she ordered, then saw the lines of strain and fatigue. "Your mother." Pandora grabbed for his hand. "Oh, Michael, is your mother—"
"Playing bridge." He rubbed his free hand over his face. Even to him it felt rough and seedy. "I bounced across country, once in a tuna can with propellers, to find out she was sipping sherry and trumping her partner's ace."
"She's better then?"
"She was always better. The telegram was a hoax." He yawned, stretched and settled. "God, what a night."
"You mean..." Pandora tugged on the sheets and glowered. "Well, the rats."
"Yeah. I plotted out several forms of revenge when I was laid over in Cleveland. Maybe our friend who stomped through your workshop figured it was my turn. Now we each owe them one."
"I owe 'em two." Pandora leaned back against the headboard with the sheets tucked under her arms. Her hair fell luxuriously over her naked shoulders. "Last night while you were off on your wild-goose chase, I was locked in the cellar."
Michael's attention shot away from the thin sheet that barely covered her. "Locked in? How?"
Crossing one ankle over the other, Pandora told him what happened from the time the lights went out.
"Climbed up on boxes? To that little window? It's nearly ten feet."
"Yes, I believe I noticed that at the time."
Michael scowled at her. The anger he'd felt at being treated to a sleepless night doubled. He could picture her groping her way around in the dank cellar all too well. Worse, he could see her very clearly climbing on shaky boxes and crates. "You could've broken your neck."
"I didn't. What I did do was rip my favorite pair of slacks, scratch both knees and bruise my shoulder."
Michael managed to hold back his fury. He'd let it go, he promised himself, when the time was right. "It could've been worse," he said lightly, and thought of what he'd do to whoever had locked her in.
"It was worse," Pandora tossed back, insulted. "While you were sipping Scotch at thirty thousand feet, I was locked in a cold, damp cellar with mice and spiders."
"We might reconsider calling the police."
"And do what with them? We can't prove anything. We don't even know whom we can't prove anything against."
"New rule," Michael decided. "We stick together. Neither of us leaves the house overnight without the other. At least until we find out which of our devoted relations is playing games."
Pandora started to protest, then remembered how frightened she'd been, and before the cellar, before the fear, how lonely. "Agreed. Now..." With one hand hanging onto the sheet, she shifted toward him. "I vote for Uncle Carlson on this one. After all, he knows the house better than any of the others. He lived here."
"It's as good a guess as any. But it's only a guess." Michael stared up at the ceiling. "I want to know. Biff stayed here for six weeks one summer when we were kids,"
"That's right." Pandora frowned at the ceiling herself. The mirror across the room reflected them lying companionably, hip to hip. "I'd forgotten about that. He hated it."
"He's never had a sense of humor."
"True enough. As I recall he certainly didn't like you."
"Probably because I gave him a black eye."
Pandora's brow lifted. "You would." Then, because the image of Biff with a shiner wasn't so unappealing, she added: "Why did you? You never said."
"Remember the frogs in your dresser?"
Pandora sniffed and smoothed at the sheets. "I certainly do. It was quite immature of you."
"Not me. Biff."
"Biff?" Astonished, she turned toward him again. "You mean that little creep put the frogs in my underwear?" The next thought came, surprisingly pleasing. "And you punched him for it?"
"It wasn't hard."
"Why didn't you deny it when I accused you?"
"It was more satisfying to punch Biff. In any case, he knows the house well enough. And I imagine if we checked up, we'd find most of our happy clan has stayed here, at least for a few days at a time. Finding a fuse box in the cellar doesn't take a lot of cunning. Think it through, Pandora. There are six of them, seven with the charity added on. Split a hundred fifty million seven ways and you end up with plenty of motive. Every one of them has a reason for wanting us to break the terms of the will. None of them, as far as I'm concerned, is above adding a little pressure to help us along."
"Another reason the money never appealed to me," she mused. "They haven't done anything but vandalize and annoy, but, dammit, Michael, I want to pay them back."
"The ultimate payback comes in just under five months." Without thinking about it, Michael put his arm around her shoulders. Without thinking about it, Pandora settled against him. A light fragrance clung to her skin. "Can't you see Carlson's face when the will holds up and he gets nothing but a magic wand and a trick hat?"
His shoulder felt more solid than she'd imagined. "And Biff with three cartons of matchbooks." Comfortable, she chuckled. "Uncle Jolley's still having the last laugh."
"We'll have it with him in a few months."
"It's a date. And you've got your shoes on my sheets."
"Sorry," With two economical movements, he pried them off.
"That's not exactly what I meant. Don't you want to wander off to your own room now?"
"Not particularly. Your bed's nicer than mine. Do you always sleep naked?"
"No."
"My luck must be turning then." He shifted to press his lips to a bruise on her shoulder. "Hurt?"
She shrugged and prayed it came off as negligent. "A little."
"Poor little Pandora. And to think I always thought you were tough-skinned."
"I am—"
"Soft," he interrupted, and skimmed his fingers down her arm. "Very soft. Any more bruises?" He brushed his lips over the curve of her neck. They both felt her quick, involuntary shudder.
"Not so you'd notice."
"I'm very observant." He rolled, smoothly, so that his body pressed more intimately into hers as he looked down on her. He was tired. Yes, he was tired and more than a little punchy with jet lag, but he hadn't forgotten he wanted her. Even if he had, the way her body yielded, the way her face looked rosy and soft with sleep, would've jogged his memory. "Why don't I look for myself?" He ran his fingers down to where the sheet lay, neat, prim and arousing, at her breast.
She sucked in her breath, incredibly moved by his lightest touch. She couldn't let it show...could she? She couldn't reach out for something that was only an illusion. He wasn't stable. He wasn't real. He was with her now because she was here and no one else was. Why was it becoming so hard to remember that?
His face was close, filling her vision. She saw the little things she'd tried not to notice over the years. The way a thin ring of gray outlined his irises, the straight, almost aristocratic line of his nose that had remained miraculously unbroken through countless fistfights. The soft, sculpted, somehow poetic shape of his mouth. A mouth, she remembered, that was hot and strong and inventive when pressed against hers.
"Michael..." The fact that she hesitated, then fumbled before she reached down to take his hand both pleased and unnerved him. She wasn't as cool and self-contained as she'd always appeared. And because she wasn't, he could slip his way under her skin. But he might not slip out again so easily.
Be practical, she told herself. Be realistic. "Michael, we have almost five months more to get through."
"Good point." He needed the warmth. He needed the woman. Maybe it was time to risk the consequences. He lowered his head and nibbled at her mouth. "Why waste it?"
She let herself enjoy him. For just a moment, she promised herself. For only a moment. He was warm and his hands were easy. The night had been long and cold and frightening. No matter how much she hated to admit it, she'd needed him. Now, with the sun pouring through the tiny square panes in the windows, falling bright and hard on the bed, she had him. Close, secure, comforting.
Her lips opened against his.
He'd had no plan when he'd come into her room. He'd simply been drawn to her; he'd wanted to lie beside her and talk to her. Passion hadn't guided him. Desire hadn't pushed him. There'd only been the basic need to be home, to be home with her. When she'd snuggled against him, hair tousled, eyes heavy, it had been so natural that the longing had snuck up on him. He wanted nothing more than to stay where he was, wrapped around her, slowly heating.
And for her, passion didn't bubble wildly, but easily, like a brew that had been left to simmer through the day while spices were added. One sample, then another, and the taste changed, enriched, deepened. With Michael, there the flavors were only hinted at, an aroma to draw in and savor. She could have gone on, and on, hour after hour, until what they made between them was perfected. She wanted to give in to the need, the beginnings of greed. If she did, everything would change. It was a change she couldn't predict, couldn't see clearly, could only anticipate. So she resisted him and herself and what could happen between them.
"Michael..." But she let her fingers linger in his hair for just a minute more. "This isn't smart."
He kissed her eyes closed. It was something no one had done before. "It's the smartest thing either of us has done in years."
She wanted to agree, felt herself on the edge of agreeing. "Michael, things are complicated enough. If we were lovers and things went wrong, how could we manage to go on here together? We've made a commitment to Uncle Jolley."
"The will doesn't have a damn thing to do with you and me in this bed."
How could she have forgotten just how intense he could look when he was bent on something? How was it she'd never noticed how attractive it made him? She'd have to make a stand now or go under. "The will has everything to do with you and me in this house. If we go to bed together and our relationship changes, then we'll have to deal with all the problems and complications that go with it."
"Name some."
"Don't be amusing, Michael."
"Giving you a laugh wasn't my intention." He liked the way she looked against the pillow—hair spread out like wildfire, cheeks a bit flushed, her mouth on the edge of forming a pout. Strange he'd never pictured her this way before. It didn't take any thought to know he'd picture her like this again and again. "I want you, Pandora. There's nothing amusing about it."
No, that wasn't something she could laugh or shrug off, not when the words brushed over her skin and made her muscles limp. He didn't mean it. He couldn't mean it. But she wanted to believe it. If she couldn't laugh it off, she had to throw up a guard and block it.
"Becoming lovers is something that takes a lot of thought. If we're going to discuss it—"
"I don't want to discuss it." He pressed his lips against hers until he felt her body soften. "We're not making a corporate merger, Pandora, we're making love."
"That's just it." She fought back an avalanche of longing. Be practical. It was her cardinal rule. "We're business partners. Worse, we're family business partners, at least for the next few months. If we change that now it could—"
"If," he interrupted. "It could. Do you always need guarantees?"
Her brows drew together as annoyance competed with desire. "It's a matter of common sense to look at all the angles."
"I suppose you have any prospective lover fill out an application form."
Her voice chilled. It was, in a distorted way, close to the truth. "Don't be crude, Michael."
Pushed to the limit, he glared down at her. "I'd rather be crude than have your brand of common sense."
"You've never had any brand of common sense," she tossed back. "Why else would every busty little blonde you've winked at be public knowledge? You don't even have the decency to be discreet."
"So that's it." Shifting, Michael drew her into a sitting position. There was no soft yielding now. She faced him with fire in her eyes. "Don't forget the brunettes and the redheads."
She hadn't. She promised herself she wouldn't. "I don't want to discuss it."
"You brought it up, and we'll finish it. I've gone to bed with women. So put me in irons. I've even enjoyed it."
She tossed her hair behind her shoulder. "I'm sure you have."
"And I haven't had a debate with every one of them beforehand. Some women prefer romance and mutual enjoyment."
"Romance?" Her brows shot up under her tousled hair. "I've always had another word for it."
"You wouldn't recognize romance if it dropped on your head. Do you consider it discreet to take lovers and pretend you don't? To pledge undying fidelity to one person while you're looking for another? What you want to call discretion, I call hypocrisy. I'm not ashamed of any of the women I've known, in bed or out."
"I'm not interested in what you are or aren't ashamed of. I'm not going to be your next mutual enjoyment. Keep your passion for your dancers and starlets and chorus girls."
"You're as big a snob as the rest of them."
That hit home and had her shoulders stiffening. "That's not true. I've simply no intention of joining a crowd."
"You flatter me, cousin."
"There's another word for that, too."
"Think about this." He gave her a shake, harder than he'd intended. "I've never made love with a woman I didn't care for and respect." Before he cut loose and did more than shake her, he got up and walked to the door while she sat in the middle of the bed clutching sheets and looking furious.
"It appears you give respect easily." He turned back to study her. "No," he said slowly. "But I don't make people jump through hoops for it."
A cold war might not be as stimulating as an active battle, but with the right participants, it could be equally destructive. For days Pandora and Michael circled around each other. If one made a sarcastic comment, the other reached into the stockpile and used equal sarcasm. Neither drew out the red flag for full-scale attack, instead they picked and prodded at each other while the servants rolled their eyes and waited for bloodshed.
"Foolishness," Sweeney declared as she rolled out the crust for two apple pies. "Plain foolishness." She was a sturdy, red-faced woman, as round as Charles was thin. In her pragmatic, nononsense way, she'd married and buried two husbands, then made her way in the world by cooking for others. Her kitchen was always neat and tidy, all the while smelling of the sinfully rich food she prepared. "Spoiled children," she told Charles. "That's what they are. Spoiled children need the back of the hand."
"They've over four months to go." Charles sat gloomily at the kitchen table, hunched over a cup of tea. "They'll never make it."
"Hah!" Sweeney slammed the rolling pin onto a fresh ball of dough. "They'll make it. Too stubborn not to. But it's not enough."
"The master wanted them to have the house. As long as they do, we won't lose it."
"What'll we be doing in this big empty house when both of them go back to the city? How often will either of them be visiting with the master gone?" Sweeney turned the crust into a pan and trimmed it expertly. "The master wanted them to have the house, true enough. And he wanted them to have each other. The house needs a family. It's up to us to see it gets one."
"You didn't hear them over breakfast." Charles sipped his tea and watched Sweeney pour a moist apple mixture into the crust.
"That has nothing to do with it. I've seen the way they look at each other when they think the other one's not noticing. All they need's a push."
With quick, economic movements, she filled the second crust. "We're going to give 'em one."
Charles stretched out his legs. "We're too old to push young people."
Sweeney gave a quick grunt as she turned. Her hands were thick, and she set them on her hips. "Being old's the whole trick. You've been feeling poorly lately."
"No, to tell you the truth, I've been feeling much better this week."
"You've been feeling poorly," Sweeney repeated, scowling at him. "Now here's our Pandora coming in for lunch. Just follow my lead. Look a little peaked."
Snow had come during the night, big fat flakes that piled on the ground and hung in the pines. As she walked, Pandora kicked it up, pleased with herself. Her work couldn't have been going better. The earrings she'd finally fashioned had been unique, so unique, she'd designed a necklace to complement them. It was chunky and oversize with geometric shapes of copper and gold. Not every woman could wear it, but the one who could wouldn't go unnoticed.
It was, to Pandora, a statement of the strong, disciplined woman. She was just as pleased with the shoulder-brushing earrings she was making with jet and silver beads. They had been painstakingly strung together and when finished would be elegantly flirtatious. Another aspect of woman. If her pace kept steady, she'd have a solid inventory to ship off to the boutique she supplied. In time for the Christmas rush, she reminded herself smugly.
When she opened the kitchen door, she was ravenously hungry and in the best of moods.
"... if you're feeling better in a day or two," Sweeney said briskly, then turned as if surprised to see Pandora inside. "Oh, time must've got away from me. Lunch already and I'm just finishing up the pies."
"Apple pies?" Grinning, Pandora moved closer. But Sweeney saw with satisfaction that Pandora was already studying Charles. "Any filling left?" she began, and started to dip her fingers into the bowl. Sweeney smacked them smartly.
"You've been working with those hands. Wash them up in the sink, and you'll have your lunch as soon as I can manage it."
Obediently, Pandora turned on a rush of water. Under the noise, she murmured to Sweeney. "Is Charles not feeling well?"
"Bursitis is acting up. Cold weather's a problem. Just being old's a problem in itself." She pushed a hand at the small of her back as though she had a pain. "Guess we're both slowing down a bit. Aches and pains," Sweeney sighed and cast a sidelong look at Pandora. "Just part of being old."
"Nonsense." Concerned, Pandora scrubbed her hands harder. She told herself she should have been keeping a closer eye on Charles. "You just try to do too much."
"With the holidays coming..." Sweeney trailed off and made a business out of arranging a top crust. "Well, decorating the house is a lot of work, but it's its own reward. Charles and I'll deal with the boxes in the attic this afternoon."
"Don't be silly." Pandora shut off the water and reached for a towel. "I'll bring the decorations down."
"No, now, missy, there're too many boxes and most of them are too heavy for a little girl like you. That's for us to see to. Isn't that right, Charles?"
Thinking of climbing the attic stairs a half-dozen times, Charles started to sigh. A look from Sweeney stopped him. "Don't worry, Miss McVie, Sweeney and I will see to it."
"You certainly will not." Pandora hung the towel back on the hook. "Michael and I will bring everything down this afternoon, and that's that. Now I'll go tell him to come to lunch."
Sweeney waited until the door swung shut behind Pandora before she grinned.
Upstairs, Pandora knocked twice on Michael's office door, then walked in. He kept on typing. Putting her pride on hold, Pandora walked over to his desk and folded her arms. "I need to talk to you."
"Come back later. I'm busy."
Abuse rose up in her throat. Remembering Sweeney's tired voice, she swallowed it. "It's important." She ground her teeth on the word, but said it. "Please."
Surprised, Michael stopped typing in midword. "What? Has one of the family been playing games again?"
"No, it's not that. Michael, we have to decorate the house for Christmas."
He stared at her a moment, swore and turned bad to his machine. "I've got a twelve-year-old boy kidnapped and being held for a million-dollar ransom. That's important."
"Michael, will you put away fantasyland for a moment? This is real."
"So's this. Just ask my producer."
"Michael!" Before he could stop her, Pandora pulled the sheet from the typewriter. He was halfway out of his chair to retaliate. "It's Sweeney and Charles."
It stopped him, though he snatched the paper back from her. "What about them?"
"Charles's bursitis is acting up again, and fm sure Sweeney's not feeling well. She sounded, well, old."
"She is old." But Michael tossed the paper on the desk. "Think we should call in a doctor?"
"No, they'd be furious." She swung around his desk, trying to pretend she wasn't reading part of his script, "I'd rather just keep an eye on them for a few days and make sure they don't overdo. That's where the Christmas decorations come in."
"I figured you'd get to them. Look, if you want to deck the halls, go ahead. I haven't got time to fool with it today."
"Neither do I." She folded her arms in a manner that amused him, "Sweeney and Charles have it in their heads that it has to be done. Unless we want them dragging up and down the attic stairs, we have to take care of it."
"Christmas is three weeks away."
"I know the date." Frustrated, she strode to the window then back. "They're old and they're set on it. You know Uncle Jolley would've had them up the day after Thanksgiving. It's traditional."
"All right, all right." Trapped, Michael rose. "Let's get started."
"Right after lunch." Satisfied she'd gotten her way, Pandora swept out.
Forty-five minutes later, she and Michael were pushing open the attic door. The attic was, in Jolley's tradition, big enough to house a family of five. "Oh, I'd forgotten what a marvelous place this is." Forgetting herself, Pandora grabbed Michael's hand and pulled him in. "Look at this table, isn't it horrible?"
It was. Old and ornate with curlicues and cupids, it had been shoved into a corner to hold other paraphernalia Jolley had discarded. "And the bird cage out of Popsicle sticks. Uncle Jolley said it took him six months to finish it, then he didn't have the heart to put a bird inside."
"Lucky for the bird," Michael muttered, but found himself, as always, drawn to the dusty charm of the place. "Spats," he said, and lifted a pair from a box. "Can't you see him in them?"
"And this hat." Pandora found a huge circular straw with a garden of flowers along the brim. "Aunt Katie's. I've always wished I'd met her. My father said she was just as much fun as Uncle Jolley."
Michael watched Pandora tip the brim over her eyes.
"If that was her hat, I believe it. How about this?" He found a black derby and tilted it rakishly.
"It's you," Pandora told him with her first easy laugh in days. "All you need's a high white collar and a walking stick. Look." She pulled him in front of a tall cheval mirror that needed resilvering. Together, they studied themselves.
"An elegant pair," Michael decided, though his sweater bagged over his hips, and she already had dust on her nose. "All you need is one of those slim little skirts that sweep the floor and a lace blouse with padded shoulders."
"And a cameo on a ribbon," she added as she tried to visualize herself. "No, I probably would've worn bloomers and picketed for women's rights."
"The hat still suits you." He turned to adjust it just a bit. "Especially with your hair long and loose. I've always liked it long, though you looked appealingly lost and big-eyed when you had it all chopped short."
"I was fifteen."
"And you'd just come back from the Canary Islands with the longest, brownest legs I'd ever seen in my life. I nearly ate ray saucer when you walked into the parlor."
"You were in college and had some cheerleader hanging on your arm."
Michael grinned. "You had better legs,"
Pandora pretended little interest. She remembered the visit perfectly, but was surprised, and pleased, that he did. "I'm surprised you noticed or remembered."
"I told you I was observant."
She acknowledged the thrust with a slight nod. There were times when it was best to pad quietly over dangerous ground. "We'd better start digging out the decorations. Sweeney said the boxes were back along the left and clearly marked." Without waiting for agreement, she turned and began to look. "Oh good grief." She stopped again when she saw the stacks of boxes, twenty, perhaps twentyfive of them. Michael stood at her shoulder and stuck his hands in his pockets.
"Think we can hire some teamsters?" Pandora blew out a breath. "Roll up your sleeves." On some trips, they could pile two or three boxes apiece and maneuver downstairs. On others, it took both of them to haul one. Somewhere along the way they'd stopped arguing. It was just too much effort.
Grimy and sweaty, they dropped the last boxes in the parlor. Ignoring the dust on her slacks, Pandora collapsed in the nearest chair. "Won't it be great fun hauling them all up again after New Year's?" "Couldn't we've settled on a plastic Santa?" "It'll be worth it." Drumming up the energy, she knelt on the floor and opened the first box. "Let's get started."
Once they did, they went at it with a vengeance. Boxes were opened, garland strewed and bulbs tested. They squabbled good-naturedly about what looked best where and the proper way to drape lights at the windows. When the parlor, the main hall and the staircase were finished, Pandora stood at the front door and took a long look.
The garland was white and silver, twisting and twining down the banister. There were bright red bells, lush green ribbon and tiny lights just waiting for evening. "It looks good," she decided. "Really good. Of course, Sweeney and Charles will want to decorate the servants' quarters and that entire box goes into the dining room, but it's a wonderful start."
"Start?" Michael sat on the stairs. "We're not entering a contest, cousin."
"These things have to be done right. I wonder if my parents will make it home for Christmas. Well..." She brushed that off. They always considered wherever they were home. "I'd say we're ready for the tree. Let's go find one."
"You want to drive into town now?"
"Of course not." Pandora was already pulling coats out of the hall closet. "We'll go right out in the woods and dig one up."
"We?"
"Certainly. I hate it when people cut trees down and then toss them aside after the new year. The woods are loaded with nice little pines. We'll dig one up, then replant it after the holidays."
"How handy are you with a shovel?"
"Don't be a spoilsport." Pandora tossed his coat to him, then pulled on her own. "Besides, it'll be nice to spend some time outside after being in that stuffy attic. We can have some hot buttered rum when we're finished."
"Heavy on the rum."
They stopped at the toolshed for a shovel. Michael picked two and handed one to Pandora. She took it without a blink, then together they walked through the ankle-high snow to the woods. The air had a bite and the scent of pine was somehow stronger in the snow.
"I love it when it's like this." Pandora balanced the shovel on her shoulder and plowed through the woods.
"It's so quiet, so—separated. You know, sometimes I think I'd rather live here and visit the city than the other way around."
He'd had the same thought, but was surprised to hear it from her. "I always thought you liked the bright lights and confusion."
"I do. But I like this, too. How about this one?" She paused in front of a spruce. "No, the trunk's too crooked." She walked on. "Besides, I wonder if it wouldn't be more exciting to go into the city for a week now and again and know you had someplace like this to come back to. I seem to work better here. Here's one."
"Too tall. We're better off digging up a young one. Wouldn't it put a crimp in your social life?"
"What?" She studied the tree in question and was forced to agree with him. "Oh. My social life isn't a priority, my work is. In any case, I could entertain here."
He had a picture of her spending long, cozy weekends with flamboyant, artsy types who read Keats aloud. "You don't have to come all the way to the Catskills to play house."
Pandora merely lifted a brow. "No, I don't. This one looks good." She stopped again and took a long study of a four-and-a-half-foot spruce. Behind her, Michael worked hard to keep his mouth shut. "It's just the right size for the parlor."
"Fine." Michael stuck his shovel into the ground. "Put your back into it."
As he bent over to dig, Pandora scooped up a shovelful of snow and tossed it into his face. "Oh, sorry."
She smiled and batted her eyes. "Looks like my aim's off." Digging with more effort, she began to hum.
He let it go, probably because he appreciated the move and wished he'd thought of it himself. Within fifteen minutes, they had the hole dug.
"There now." Only a little out of breath, Pandora leaned on her shovel. 'The satisfaction of a job well done."
"We only have to carry it back to the house, set it up and...damn, we need something to wrap the roots and dirt in. There was burlap in the shed."
They eyed each other blandly.
"All right," he said after a moment. "I'll go get it, then you have to sweep up the needles and dirt we trail on the floor."
"Deal."
Content, Pandora turned away to watch a cardinal when a snowball slapped into the back of her head. "Sorry." Michael gave her a companionable smile. "Aim must be off." He whistled as he walked bad to the shed.
Pandora waited until he was out of sight, then smiling smugly, knelt down to ball snow. By the time he got back, she calculated, she could have an arsenal at hand. He wouldn't have a chance. She took her time, forming and smoothing each ball into a sophisticated weapon. Secure in her advantage, she nearly fell on her face when she heard a sound behind her. She had the ball in her hand and was already set to throw as she whirled. No one was there, Narrowing her eyes, she waited. Hadn't she seen a movement back in the trees? It would be just like him to skirt around and try to sneak up on her. She saw the cardinal fly up again as if startled and heard the quiet plop of snow hitting snow as it was shaken from branches.
"All right, Michael, don't be a coward." She picked up a ball in her left hand, prepared to bombard.
"Guarding your flank?" Michael asked so that this time when she whirled back around, she slid onto her bottom. He grinned at her and dropped the burlap sack in her lap.
"But weren't you..." She trailed off and looked behind her again. How could he be here if he was there? "Did you circle around?"
"No, but from the looks of that mound of balls, I should've. Want to play war?"
"It's just a defense system," she began, then looked over her shoulder again. "I thought I heard you. I would've sworn there was someone just beyond the trees there."
"I went straight to the shed and back." He looked beyond her. "You saw something out there?"
"Michael, if you're playing tricks—"
"No." He cut her off and reached down to pull her to her feet. "No tricks. Let's have a look."
She moved her shoulders but didn't remove her hand from his as they walked deeper into the trees. "Maybe I was a bit jumpy."
"Or expecting me to be sneaky?"
"That, too. It was probably just a rabbit."
"A rabbit with big feet," he murmured as he looked down at the tracks. They were clear enough in the snow, tracks leading to and away from the spot ten yards behind where they'd dug up the tree. "Rabbits don't wear boots."
"So, we still have company. I was beginning to think they'd given the whole business up." She kept her voice light, but felt the uneasiness of anyone who'd been watched. "Maybe it's time we talked to Fitzhugh, Michael."
"Maybe, in the meantime—" The sound of an engine cut him off. He was off in a sprint with Pandora at his heels. After a five-minute dash, they came, clammy and out of breath, to what was hardly more than a logging trail. Tire tracks had churned up the snow and blackened it. "A Jeep, I'd guess." Swearing, Michael stuck his hands in his pockets. If he'd started out right away, he might have caught someone or at least have caught a glimpse of someone.
Pandora let out an annoyed breath. Racing after someone was one thing, being outmaneuvered another. "Whoever it is is only wasting his time."
"I don't like being spied on." He wanted physical contact. Longed for it. Frustrated, he stared at the tracks that led back to the main road. "I'm not playing cat and mouse for the next four months."
"What are we going to do?"
His smile spread as he looked at the tracks. "We'll spread the word through Fitzhugh that we've been bothered by trespassers. Being as there's any number of valuables on the premises, we've decided to haul out one of Jolley's old .3O-.3O's."
"Michael! They may be a nuisance, but they're still family." Unsure, she studied him. "You wouldn't really shoot at anyone."
"I'd rather shoot at family than strangers," he countered, then shrugged. "They're also fond of their own skin. I can't think of one of them who wouldn't hesitate to play around if they thought they might be picking buckshot out of embarrassing places."
"I don't like it. Guns, even the threat of guns, are trouble."
"Got a better idea?"
"Let's buy a dog. A really big, mean dog."
"Great, then we can let him loose and have him sink his teeth into one of our favorite relatives. They'd like that a lot better than buckshot."
"He doesn't have to be that mean."
"We'll compromise and do both."
"Michael—"
"Let's call Fitzhugh."
"And take his advice?" Pandora demanded.
"Sure...if I like it."
Pandora started to object, then laughed. It was all as silly as a plot of one of his shows. "Sounds reasonable," she decided, then tucked her arm through his. "Let's get the tree inside first."