His Mountain Miss. Karen Kirst
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them. “Next time, then.”
“Good evening.”
“Wait!” Megan ducked inside for a kerosene lamp. Their fingers brushed as she handed it to him and an unexpected pang shot through her. There was such strength and warmth in those hands. Gentleness, too. “To light your way,” she said.
His features tightened briefly. “Thanks.”
Then he turned and walked away. And Megan was glad she was smart enough to know not to fall in love with the man. Something deep inside warned that it wouldn’t be the happy-ever-after kind of love. More like the Romeo and Juliet, tragic kind of love. For them, there could be no happy ending.
Chapter Seven
Standing in the flower garden Monday afternoon, Lucian turned at the sound of angry footsteps.
“Cabbage?” Megan marched his direction, her pastel-pink skirts skimming the stone path and swiping the blooms unfortunate enough to be too near the edge. “That’s what you’ve been calling me?”
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