A Montana Christmas. Kristine Rolofson
as she saw him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Did we wake you? I thought if we came downstairs—”
“No. I came down for something to eat.” He kept his voice low, though he didn’t know why he bothered. The baby was clearly not going to go to sleep. It kept lifting its head from its mother’s shoulder and making frustrated noises. “That is one angry kid you’ve got there.”
“No kidding.” She surprised him by smiling, which didn’t help his resolve to ignore her. “She didn’t get her temper from me, I swear.”
Then from whom? He didn’t voice the question aloud. It wasn’t his business. None of this was his business. “I thought rocking chairs were supposed to make babies go to sleep.”
“Tell her that.” Mel leaned forward and lifted herself from the chair. Her robe, a pale shade of green, looked soft. It was tied at her waist with satin strings and hung to her ankles. And she was barefoot.
“I didn’t want to make any noise,” she explained when she caught him looking at her feet.
“You’ll catch cold. Come into the den and I’ll get a fire going.” He was insane, he reminded himself. He should get back to his own room, take the stairs two at a time, lock the door. Damn Will, anyway.
“It’s almost two o’clock,” she protested, patting the baby’s back. The infant squirmed against her and let out a little cry. But her head settled on Mel’s shoulder. “We’d better try going back to bed.”
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