THE TIME STAR (5 page)

Waneeta lit up. "Oh, I've heard of
that! We used to do that when my grandmother made apple pies."

"Your grandmother baked? I would
have thought she'd have a cook."

She laughed out loud. "Are you
kidding? My grandfather would have said that they could never afford one, and
as much as she often said she'd like one, I think Nanny secretly liked to fuss.
Nope, she definitely liked to bake. Of course, with my brother and Kevin
around, nothing lasted very long." She smiled as she looked around. "So
where did my peeling land?"

Thomas picked up her last peel where it
fell behind her foot. "Try throwing it this time over your shoulder."

Waneeta took the single, long strip,
turned her back to him and flipped it into the air. It landed near the pie safe.

They hurried over to it.

Chapter 5

One end looped and fell over to its own
right, and the other end curved around like a 'C'.

"Well," she said, studying the
peel. "If you look at it this way," she tilted her head to the left, "it's
a 'g'. But if you look at it this way, it's an 'M'." She laughed. "Maybe
I'm going to marry twice."

Thomas suddenly scooped up the peel and
drove it into the hearth, causing Waneeta to jump. The peel immediately hissed
and shriveled. She stole a curious look at him. Why he was so gruff? It wasn't
like as if it was a 'T' or anything.

Which brought her to the question, was
he married?

Her heart sank. Probably. All the good
ones were.

When he saw her frown, he relaxed and
grinned and said, "You'd better get busy or we won't have any breakfast at
all."

Waneeta soon had the apples stewing over
the fire. As she stirred them, Thomas took out a huge wedge of white cheese
from the pie safe.

Once all chunked up, the cheese was set
on a platter. Then Thomas took the bubbling sauce from the hook above the fire
and ladled it into two bowls.

He worked around her as if she were
invisible. He didn't even realize the effect he was having on her. Did he even know
how sexy he was? Automatically, Waneeta inhaled. Over the scent of apples, she
could smell wood and soap. Nice, she thought, manly.

Suddenly, Thomas turned. They were a
foot apart, but that space around her brushed his own, and Waneeta felt the
contact like a warm blanket. Immediately, she backed off as Thomas set over the
fire a pot of water with a large scoop of green tea leaves dropped in.

Green tea. Finally, something that was
modern.

Thomas pulled the bench out for them. Again
that unseen comfort zone brushed her as she sat down. It was the most difficult
meal she'd ever sat through, but she wouldn't have missed it for the world.
Insane, yes, but she refused to deny her feelings.

Trying to ease the tension, Waneeta
commented, "I don't usually have green tea for breakfast. I'm guessing you
don't drink coffee?"

"No." He paused. "How do
you take your coffee?"

"Black, with just a pinch of sugar."

Thomas, brightening, stood up. From the
recesses of the pie safe, he pulled out a small tin. He opened it and gave it to
her.

"Brown sugar," he said. "I
know green tea is an acquired taste, but this should help."

"Thanks." She took the tin,
careful not to touch his fingers as they curled around the dark canister.

Thomas returned to his meal, sitting at
the other end.

For a long time, the only noise was the
fire, crackling cheerfully as if enjoying the tension. She had to say
something. "You know, your furniture's amazing! Are they replicas?"

He looked at her blankly for a moment, and
then said, "Replicas of what?"

Laughing, she answered, "Of the originals,
of course!"

Thomas looked around, and shrugged. "I
assume so. There were a lot of them around before these were made."

Again, they lapsed into silence.
Pondering his words, Waneeta bit into her bread. What an odd thing to say. Deep
within, a peal of warning bells rang out.

How odd that she hadn't heard that
warning before. Perhaps she hadn't because her bumps and bruises had distracted
her. Or what if she was more injured than she realized?

No, she couldn't be.

Only when the wind moaned around the
cabin, did she continue, "I guess we won't be doing too much today. What
did you have planned?"

Thomas stared across the table into thin
air as he popped his last piece of cheese into his mouth. When that was gone,
he turned to Waneeta.

"Today I would have written in my new
journal and baked more bread. Not much I can do in this storm."

She tipped her head. He had a journal?
Would he write about her? If she had a journal, what would she write? She was
no good at committing words to paper. Being a tomboy all her life, she'd
focused more on games and sports. "I'm supposed to go to a hockey game
this evening with some friends," she murmured.

Thomas lifted his brows. "You like
to watch ice hockey?"

Ice hockey? What other kind of hockey
was there to watch this time of year? She'd played her share of street and ball
hockey, but not in the winter. Waneeta nodded, swallowing the last of her tea. "Yes.
Do you?"

"Not as much as I like to play it,"
he answered.

"Who's your favorite team?"

"Whichever one I'm playing for."

She laughed, hearing it echo through the
small cabin. Hearing it drown out the renewed peals of those warning bells
again. "That's funny. Well, I'm a Toronto fan."

"Toronto! Do you travel down to
watch them play?"

Shaking her head she answered, "No,
not for years. I hardly even catch them on TV anymore. Too busy."

Thomas frowned. "Teevee? Like
teepee?"

Waneeta stood to clear the table. "No,
TV
. No point talking about that here, is there? You don't even have
hydro here."

"Hydro?" he queried.

She stopped halfway between him and dry
sink. "You're not from Ontario, eh?"

Eyebrows raised, he shook his head. "No,
I'm from upper New York State, though my father was born in Kingston. How did
you know?"

"People everywhere else call it
either 'power' or 'electricity'. Though, my grandmother was from New Brunswick
and she called it 'the lights', but we knew she meant the power. In Ontario, though,
we've always called it the hydro."

Thomas frowned. "I'll have to write
those words down in my journal, to remember them."

Waneeta shook her head. This was getting,
well, too weird.

Yet, Thomas was, well, intriguing. So
totally unlike the jerks she'd met over the years. So what if he was a bit eccentric?
There was no law against that. Frankly, it was refreshing.

They spent the next hour cleaning and
tidying the cabin wordlessly until Waneeta noticed dawn seeping through the
tiny window. Afterward, peering out the frosted pane, she commented, "I
don't think I've been up this early in ages. I mean I'm up before the sun in
the winter, of course, but not on a day off." She could see the wind still
driving fat snowflakes at the cabin. The forecasters had predicted much less
than this storm was giving.

Extinguishing the lamp, Thomas glanced
sideways at his companion. She was bent over, peering out the window and revealing
a rounded bottom he shouldn't be staring at.

She straightened, smoothing her hair. "I
must look a sight. I didn't want to break your comb, so I didn't touch my hair.
But I could use a change of clothes."

"You look fine, Miss. But, if you
don't mind me asking, why didn't you have a dress with you? Most ladies travel
with a change of clothes, don't they?" Seeing her grimace, he instantly
grimaced. "I mean, the ones I know do. I think."

Waneeta laughed and like before, its
music danced around his soul. "A dress!" she balked, pulling outward
on a pinch of her long johns. "And wear it over my snowsuit?" she
said between laughs. "You don't have any sisters, do you?"

Thomas' smile faded. "I have two.
And they-"

Before he could finish, she blurted out,
"Are you married?"

He paused, studying her. Was she holding
her breath? He finally answered, "No." A moment later, he added, "Are
you?" She didn't wear a wedding ring, but he had to hear it from her
mouth. Suddenly, he realized that he, too, was holding his breath.

"No, I'm not."

There is a God
, he thought.

They'd both held their breaths. He knew
why he held his, but was hers the same reason? Was she as intrigued by him as
he was by her?

What could they possibly do about it?

For both their sakes, he decided he
needed to keep the mood light, not wanting to answer his own question. No, he
needed to consider her reputation, and his father's dream.

The dream that was now souring in his
stomach. Still, he forced out his most charming smile. "Not married yet? I
find it hard to believe the men in Pembroke are so blind."

Was this man for real? Waneeta laughed
self-consciously, ignoring the warning bells again. "Well, I've been busy
working, saving my money to buy a house."

"Working!" he interjected. "Doing
what?"

"I'm the manager of a sports store."

"A manager! Of a sports store? But
you're a woman!"

Waneeta laughed incredulously. She
couldn't let this one pass. "Glad you noticed! I've worked hard to get
where I am. Don't you think I know anything about sports?"

Hurriedly, he answered, "It's not
that, Miss. It's just you shouldn't have to work. I mean, you're the type of
lady that should lead a pampered life."

"Good grief, I haven't yet!"

"I'd put you on a pedestal. Under
glass," he said softly.

Waneeta heard the alarm bells ring
again, louder. Much louder. "Here?" she teased, weakly. "For
what? The local chipmunk population?"

Without answering, Thomas reached
forward and lifted one of her lazy curls from her neck, his knuckles brushing
her skin, causing every nerve to tingle. Waneeta's blood pounded in her veins
and butterflies fluttered deep in her belly. It was all she could do to stop
herself from laying her cheek on his hand.

Thomas analyzed the color of her hair. "This
is a unique colour. You're a brunette, yet this morning, it's suddenly much
lighter."

After a moment of strained silence, he
spoke. "
For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood.
They flash upon that inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude. And then my
heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils
."

That did it for Waneeta. She didn't know
of any man who quoted poetry. The very romantic core within her surged outward
and silenced those stupid warning bells that had clanged all too often when
Thomas spoke.

Fingering the wavy tendril, he said, "Wordsworth.
My father taught Literature, and my mother loved flowers."

"Did they dance in the daffodils?"

Thomas let the curl fall. He watched it
come to rest on her shoulder. "Not that I know of."

Suddenly, he hauled her into his arms,
and Waneeta let out a gasp. "Come, dance with me!" he ordered and
whirled her about, moving to a rhythm in his mind.

Waneeta laughed. Caught up in his
spontaneous dance, she tried to follow. But only he heard the music, and she
trod on his feet for proof. "Oh, I'm sorry!" she cried out as he
quite deftly played the injured party, clutching his bruised toes and pulling a
terrible face. She grabbed his arms. "I'm afraid I can't hear the music!"

Thomas immediately dropped his foot and
yanked her close. Waneeta lost her breath somewhere between grabbing his hard
biceps and his hauling her into his chest. Was it her imagination, or could she
really see hunger in his eyes? Maybe it was a reflection of the need that
coursed through her. She ran a nervous tongue over her lips, parting them after.
Thomas tightened his grip on her, and she felt his hard frame press against her.

His chest crushed her breasts, but she
couldn't find the voice to object. She wasn't planning on looking for it,
either. Thomas had finally interpreted her body language correctly. She caught
a smoldering look a moment before he lowered his head.

At first, his kiss was barely there, as
he held his lips just high enough to skim hers, but the anticipation burned
her. Then, he shifted slightly, in a way that was barely perceptible. Their
lips met. Firmly, connecting with a purpose that was designed to ignite, to
explore, to push all boundaries.

Waneeta answered his passion with equal
fervor. They teased the other's mouth with their tongues. Each explored the
warm sweetness of the other. Thomas ran the tip of his tongue across her teeth.
She answered the boldness with a nip, forgetting all but that moment in time. She
wrapped her arms around his neck, tunneling her fingers through his hair. She
could feel his arms tighten and pull her closer than any man had done before.
He crushed an arm against her bruised side. It was the sweetest agony she'd
ever known and yet she knew he could give her sweetness to match. She knew how,
too, and she wanted it, and she dug her fingers into his arms to pull him
closer.