"Whatever," Johnny said, turning the pages of the notebook.

Not that he seemed overly worried about it.

He squinted at Stephan's writing. "Who's Woody Guthrie, Kate?"

Kate didn't want to look up, but she felt it would be cowardly not to. Ethan nodded at the door, his mouth set in a determined line. "I'll be right back," she said to Johnny.

"Yeah," he said again. He picked up the guitar, leaving fingerprints in the dust. He sneezed once, and a second time, and got up to dampen a dishcloth in the sink.

She shrugged into her parka and followed Ethan outdoors. His snow machine was parked to one side of the clearing, next to Johnny's. "How long is this going to go on, Kate?"

She gave a craven thought to saying, How long is what going to go on? but then thought better of it. Ethan's expression was very clear in the moonlight. "I'm just—I'm a little—I don't know, uncertain."

"What's this uncertain? You want me; I want you. I'm here, so are you. Jesus, Kate, this is just like college all over again."

Her head came up. " 'Just like college?' Who you going to sleep with instead of me this time, Ethan?"

He blew out an explosive breath. "That's not what I meant."

Anger was a good refuge. She thought about ducking into it for maybe ten seconds. "I know," she managed to say.

"We've been dancing around sleeping together for, what, three months now?"

"No," she said in a low voice. "I've been dancing around it."

"Well," he said. "Okay." His smile flashed again.

She smiled in return, relieved. "I'm sorry, Ethan. It just hasn't felt right. I'm not ready. I don't jump into these things."

"Jack must have been one hell of a guy in the sack."

"It's not that," she snapped.

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry. I'm a little edgy around you."

She shoved her hands into the parka's pockets. "I'd better get inside."

"Hold it." He stepped forward to pull her into his arms and kiss her. He raised his head. "Feel that?"

Her response was instinctive, her legs opening a little to cradle him between diem. "Who wouldn't?"

He kissed her again, this time with enough force to press her up against the cabin wall. He kneed her legs apart and rubbed himself between them. "I've wanted you for nearly twenty years. Jack is dead. Margaret left me. There's no reason not to. Unless you don't want to."

"It's not that. I—oh." His hand had worked its way inside her parka, and she arched into his hand. This was Ethan, high school heartthrob, very nearly her first lover. He was smart, he was funny, and, above all, he was capable, a quality she had always found irresistible in men. If his voice wasn't as deep as Jack's had been, as rough-edged in its desire, well, he wasn't Jack.

No one was.

He kissed her again. But he sure as hell could kiss. When he raised his head, her lips were swollen, her head was buzzing, and her knees were weak. And the smug grin on his face told her that he knew it. "More of that where it came from," he said, straddling his snow machine. "One bedroom over."