White Christmas: Woman Hater / The Humbug Man. Diana Palmer

      The room Mary led Nicole into was delightful. It had pink accents against a background of creamy white, complete with a canopied bed and ornate mirror and even a small sitting area with pink, satin-covered chairs.

      “This was their mother’s room,” Mary said. “Pretty, yes?”

      “Are you sure I was meant to go in here?” Nicole asked hesitantly.

      “Oh, yes, very sure. Mr. Winthrop said so.” She winked at Nicole without smiling. “With his hands, you see.”

      Nicole shook her head. “He seems very …” She turned, shrugging as she tried to find words.

      “His path has not been an easy one,” Mary told her. Those dark eyes were sizing her up while she spoke. “Gerald was the favorite. He was a gentle, easy child. Winthrop was forever in trouble, always fighting, always in turmoil. He was the eldest, but not the most loved. And then came her. She with the blond hair and city ways, who was like a clear morning to me, and I saw through her. But Winthrop could not see through to the greed that motivated her. She crippled him and left him.”

      Nicole searched the smooth old face quietly. “He hides,” she said perceptively.

      Mary smiled. “You see deep.”

      “I know a survival instinct for what it is,” came the quiet reply. “We all hide inside ourselves when we’ve been hurt.” She met the dark eyes levelly. “I won’t hurt him.”

      “I see deep, too,” Mary mused. “He won’t let you close enough to do harm. But watch yourself. He has no love for women. He might take out old wounds on you.”

      “I’m a survivor,” Nicole said, laughing. “I’ll manage. But thank you for the warning.”

      Mary only nodded. “Come down when you are ready. Are you hungry?”

      “I could eat a moose,” the younger woman sighed.

      “Lovely idea. I have moose in the freezer. How would you like it? Baked, fried or in a stew?”

      Nicole burst out laughing. “I love stew.”

      “Me, too.” Mary grinned and left her.

      Nicole put on a pair of faded jeans with a long-sleeved, gray knit shirt, because the air was chilly, and her pink sneakers and went downstairs without bothering to fix her makeup or comb her hair. She wasn’t trying to catch any eyes, after all, so why irritate Winthrop by making it look as if she were making a play for him?

      There was no one around, so she went outside and found a comfortable seat on the porch swing. It was peaceful. Birds twittered and somewhere a dog barked. Farther away, cattle were lowing. Nicole closed her eyes as the breeze washed around her. Heaven.

      “I see you’ve found the swing.”

      She jerked upright as Winthrop came out onto the porch. He was bareheaded, still in the jeans and blue-checked shirt he’d worn to the airport. He’d taken time to shave, because his face was dark and smooth now, with the hairline white scar more visible without the stubble of a beard to hide it.

      “I like swings,” she said. Her pale green eyes wandered over him. He was terribly attractive without his jacket. Muscles rippled in his long legs when he walked, in his arms when he lifted them to light a cigarette. Despite his size, there wasn’t a spare ounce of fat on him. He looked lean and fit and a little dangerous, despite the faint limp when he moved toward her.

      “Deer come up into the yard sometimes,” he observed. He dropped into a big rocking chair and crossed his long legs. “Moose, elk … it’s still pretty wild here in the valley. That’s why we attract so many bored Eastern sportsmen. They come here to hunt and pretend to ‘rough it’ but they’ve lost something that mountain people have all their lives. They’ve lost hope.” He glanced down at her. “I hate rich people.”

      She felt as if he knew something, but she was afraid to bring the subject out into the open. “I’m not rich,” she said, and it was the truth. “But I thought you were.”

      It was the wrong thing to say. His dark eyes kindled and his face took on the sheen of stone. “Did you?” he asked deliberately, and the mockery in his face was daunting. “Was that why you came with Gerald, or is it his money you’re after?”

      “You don’t understand—” she began.

      “I understand women all too well,” he returned coldly. He moved away from her without another word, almost colliding with Gerald, who was coming out of the house as he was entering it.

      “Sorry, Winthrop,” Gerald murmured, curious about the expression on his brother’s face. “I was looking for Nicky.”

      “I’m out here, Mr. Christopher!” she called.

      “Oh, for God’s sake, I’m Gerald here,” he said shortly, joining her with a resigned glance over his shoulder as the door slammed behind Winthrop. He looked even younger in jeans and a pullover shirt. Nicky moved over to make room for him on the swing, and struggled to regain her lost poise. Winthrop was going to make her life miserable, she just knew it, and her stupid careless remark had provoked him. “Mr. Christopher was my father,” Gerald continued, “and he was Mister Christopher, too,” he added with a faint smile. “Our mother was on a camping trip up here. She wandered off and he found her. He nursed her back to health and she left, thinking that was the end of it.”

      “Was it?” Nicole asked.

      Gerald laughed. “No. As a matter of fact, Dad followed her all the way to New York, found her at some social gathering, picked her up and carried her to the train station and brought her here. Eventually, to save her reputation, she agreed to marry him.”

      “I guess he was used to getting his own way,” Nicky mused, and in her mind’s eye she could see Winthrop doing exactly the same thing. Her fine skin flushed just a little at the unexpected thought.

      “They were happy together,” Gerald said. “She died one spring of pneumonia. He died six months later. They said it was a heart attack, but I’ve often wondered if it wasn’t loneliness that did it.” He paused for a moment, then said suddenly, “I’m sorry Winthrop’s so inhospitable.” He glanced at Nicole’s quiet face. “You aren’t afraid of him, are you? If you are, don’t ever let him see it. He’s a good man, but he’s pretty hard on women.”

      “I’m not afraid of him,” she said. And she meant it. She wondered if there was any chance that he found her as disturbing as she found him. That didn’t bear thinking about.

      “You must miss all this in Chicago,” Nicole said, looking up at her boss.

      “I miss this, and other things,” he replied. He stared at a house far on a hill in the distance, his eyes narrowed and unexpectedly sad. “Sadie Todd lives over there,” he said absently, “with her invalid mother. We’ll have to go and visit her while we’re here.”

      “She was nursing at the general hospital, wasn’t she?”

      “Yes. She had to give up her job and come home when her mother had a stroke. Mrs. Todd is completely paralyzed on one side and doesn’t seem to want to get any better. Sadie said she couldn’t leave her at the mercy of strangers. Her father is dead.”

      She